


The Five Steps of Nesting

by emptycel



Series: First Steps [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, Fluff, Instincts are weird., M/M, Mpreg, OOC Sherlock, Omega Sherlock, Protective John, Romance, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sequel, Slash, The whole thing is pretty much mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptycel/pseuds/emptycel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place two weeks after the end of Six Steps of Courtship. Sherlock and John get some surprising/happy/deeply stressful news and decide that Sherlock will have to take a break from crime solving once his 'delicate condition renders him useless.' They decide to: sneak in a high profile case before then... which gets a bit more complicated than they planned, to just 'take a look' at this smuggling ring business (What could go wrong?), all while trying to get through the five steps of nesting, which play with Sherlock's instincts and turn him into a madman of snuggling and cleaning. </p><p>John is understandably tired. </p><p>(Slight parallel to the Blind Banker. The cases jump all over the place in the first few chapters, but it all resolves, please be patient.) </p><p>(Follows their second pregnancy from eight weeks to delivery. It is an enormous pile of fluff and parenting and poor life decisions that work out anyway. If you have a sweet tooth, or are in the mood for lighthearted antics, enjoy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пять стадий гнездования (The Five Steps of Nesting)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766686) by [Merla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merla/pseuds/Merla)



> Before people mention anything: Sherlock is supposed to be out of character. He's cuddly and maternal and a lot gentler than he normally would be. This is because he is a) actually happy in this AU, and b) a mess of nesting hormones. 
> 
> And really, I just found it funny.

_Nesting is a natural omega instinct. Expecting or newly mated omegas will nest with an aggressiveness that puts the rest of their gender to shame._

_… …_

“Are you sure?” John asked, feeling as though he were about to faint.

 

“Very sure,” Dr. Fisher replied, outlining the different parts of the ultrasound's image with her finger. “You can see both of them, and there are two distinct heartbeats, of course. Not sure how your previous doctor missed it, although embryo number two is pretty well hidden behind embryo number one.”

 

“It's just...twins. Jesus Christ.” John put his head in his hands.

 

“Well, omegas are statistically more likely to have multiples,” Dr. Fisher pointed out, glancing at Sherlock, who was staring at the image in mute horror. He looked like he had just been shown Dante's circles of hell.

 

Well, bringing two more Holmes children into the world at least _earned_ you a spot in hell, if it wasn't already a piece of it.

 

“Are you alright, love?” John asked, resisting the urge to wave his hand in front of his husband's face. He could feel a sort of controlled terror through the bond, and was a bit more worried about that than the actual idea of trying to handle a thirteen-month-old and two newborns at the same time.

 

But God, that thought made him want to vomit...

 

“Sherlock.”

 

No response.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Should I give you two a minute?” Dr. Fisher asked after another silence. “I mean, is he okay? Does he have any medical problems that we should be concerned about?”

 

“I think he's just gone to his mind palace.”

 

“His...?” She looked nervous and like she wanted to be anywhere else.

 

“He'll be fine. Could we have a moment? A lot to process and all that. You can go, I guess.”

 

Dr. Fisher hurried from the room. John was impressed that she managed to look so put together and polite while she got the hell out of there.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

 

John poked him.

 

 

He sighed and took his husband’s face between his eyes, turning his head until their eyes met.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, I know you need to process things, but I’ve got to get a sense of what you’re feeling. It’s getting a bit scary.”

 

Sherlock suddenly took a deep breath, rejoining reality.

 

“Oh God, twins,” he said, pulling away. “Two of them. Two. Jesus fucking hellfire shit.”

 

“Wow. That's...more expletives in a single sentence than I've heard since you were in labor. Are you okay?”

 

“I'm good. I'm fine,” Sherlock said, sounding anything but good or fine. “Just fucking fantastic. I can't wait to get _so_ pregnant that my body is never going to recover. I can't wait to eat the entire kitchen every day because I need to feed three people. AND I CANNOT FUCKING WAIT TO TURN INTO A PSYCHOTIC NESTING OMEGA BECAUSE BIOLOGY IS BULLSHIT!”

 

John took a massive step away from his furious husband and held out his hands in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “Hey, I know we didn't plan this, but--”

 

“My body is _betraying_ me, John. You know what I'm like. It's just bloody transport and I've had it so tightly under control and it is _mocking_ me. My body is doing this just—just to _spite_ me! Twins! God, I hate biology. And I hate being an omega. And I hate--”

 

“Sherlock!” 

 

“What?!” he snarled, freezing when he saw the expression on John’s face. “What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly panicked.

  
“Nothing,” John said a bit roughly, forcing a tiny smile. “You’re just…you’re making me a bit nervous here.”

 

“John?”

 

John took a deep breath, beat back alpha instinct, and asked Sherlock the impossible question. “Do you want these babies?”

 

Sherlock blinked. “Yes…?” Then he understood. “Oh! Yes! Of course! Of course I want them, I’m an omega. Don’t be ridiculous John.”

 

John was nearly knocked over by the powerful wave of relief that washed over him. “Oh, thank Christ. You were escalating there. I was getting scared.” 

 

Sherlock gave him a reassuring smile, projecting feelings of comfort over the bond. “I didn’t mean to. I was going to end that rant with 'And I hate maternity clothing.' A bit anticlimactic, I admit, but we're going to have to get a whole new set because I'm going to be twice as big as I was with Silas. God, I'm going to look awful. There is no way to cut a suit to _keep_ me from looking awful. I'm going to be a whale, John. A _whale._ ”

 

John stared at Sherlock very closely for a moment, trying to make sure beyond a doubt that he wasn’t just trying to spare John’s feelings.

 

“Now what?” Sherlock asked, sounding tired.

 

“Just trying to decide if you're telling the truth,” John said at last. “I think that you are. You're usually too nice to me when you lie. I haven't forgiven the poisoned coffee yet.”

 

Sherlock laughed. “And what would I have said if I was lying?”   


“Probably something like, 'And I hate that I will be too tired to make love to you, my strong and handsome alpha.'”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Well, that won't be the case. I'll just lie there and make you do all the work. Help me get off out this ridiculous table and back into my clothes. I feel full of babies and I need to go home.”

 

… …

 

“I'm going to start swelling any day,” Sherlock lamented when they got into a cab.

 

“You're only eight weeks.”

 

“I'll look six months pregnant before I'm twelve weeks. I already have a bulge.”

 

“You are exaggerating.”

 

“Just you wait, John Watson. You're going to have to roll me to crime scenes. I'll be too big to walk.”

 

“People have twins every day, Sherlock.”

  
“Why are you calm?!”

 

“I'm not calm, I'm just worrying about the parenting bit, not the pregnancy bit.”

 

“Because you don't have to cart the bastards around for another seven months. Or less, you know, because of increased risk of premature delivery.”

 

“Jesus, you _are_ a ray of sunshine, aren't you?”

 

“Fuck off, John.”

 

“I love you.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

… …

 

Silas wasn't old enough to understand, so Sherlock and John didn't bother to explain anymore than simply informing their six month old that he was getting two little siblings for the price of one.

 

Well, not really the _price_ of one, John thought mournfully. He had no idea how he was going to get enough money to support two new babies. His pride wouldn't let him ask Mycroft or Harry for help (pride and alpha instinct, anyway) and he was a little too unemployed to rely on himself for the money.

 

“I need a job,” John sighed, sinking into his chair.

 

“Don't you dare!” Sherlock called from the kitchen, where he was eating everything. “You _promised_ not to make me a housewife staying at home with the pups!”

 

“Just for a few months,” John called back. “We just need a little extra money for the babies—where did you get chicken?”

 

Sherlock had popped out of the kitchen while John was talking, a chicken leg hanging from his mouth.

 

“I stashed it,” Sherlock said, looking mildly ashamed of himself. “It's cravings, John. You wouldn't understand. If you had eaten it, I would have _cried_. Tears and everything. God, this is horrible.”

 

John smothered the urge to laugh with practiced skill. “What do you want me to do, then? We needmore money if we're going to be bringing two new pups into this flat. Oh, God. We're barely going to have enough room. We should talk to Mrs. Hudson. She might not want that many children running about, creating chaos.”

 

“Don't even suggest it to her, she will skin you alive,” Sherlock warned drily. “She never had children. She's been praying that we have at least six.”

 

“Six?! Where would we put them, in the cupboards?”

 

“I think she secretly wants us to invade the rest of 221 with our progeny. She has an extra room in 221A that she'd love a child to stay in. And there's 221C. If that gets fixed up, then we would have plenty of space for the twins and another child or two.”

 

“No more babies for a good while,” John sighed. “Or maybe ever. I don't think we'll be able to handle three. We can't even handle one! I've totally lost track of Silas during this conversation. Do you know where he's scootched himself off to?”

 

Silas couldn't _quite_ crawl yet at six months, but he could roll around and wriggle like nobody's business. He had honed the skill to an impressive level and often disappeared when no one was paying attention.

 

“He's under the sofa,” Sherlock said dismissively. “He's fine. And if you really feel like we need more money, I have a few high paying cases in my in-box that I could pick up. They've been too boring to consider, but if _funds_ are part of the picture...”

 

“Thank you,” John said, sighing with a bit of relief. “I just need to feel like we have some cushion. You never know what can happen. Especially with pups.”

 

“I'll check the cases now,” Sherlock said, running his fingers soothingly through John's hair with the hand not still holding the chicken leg. He moved to the desk and sat down before sighing. “Goddammit, I just gave into the omega again.”

 

“I like the little omega in that back of your head,” John reminded Sherlock. “He's much nicer to me than you are.”

 

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, going to back to eating his chicken while typing with one hand. “Get Silas,” he ordered without looking up. “He's trying to lick up dust.”

 

John went to go grab his son. He returned to stand behind Sherlock as the omega made a noise of disgust.

 

“What is it? Stupid people again?”

 

“Always,” Sherlock grumbled. “But more specifically someone I went to Uni with.”

 

“He sent you a case?”

  
“It's a stupid case,” Sherlock complained. “And I hate him.”

 

“Hate: the default hate you feel for everyone? Or hate: genuinely did something to wrong you?”

 

Sherlock snapped the laptop shut. “He's an _alpha_ ,” Sherlock started. “And he felt that University was not a proper place for an omega.”

 

“Twat.”   


“Yes. And, furthermore, he once skulked around outside my flat when I was in heat, hoping that I would be desperate enough to invite him in and bond with him.”

 

John froze for a moment and clutched Silas closer. “ _Twat._ What did you do?” It was practically impossible for an omega in heat to refuse a willing alpha.

 

“I shot up the rest of my heroine and spent my heat in a near-overdose daze. Couldn't let him in if I couldn't get out of bed to open the door.”

 

“Don't take his case,” John huffed, stomping into the kitchen to make tea. He set a fussy Silas into his high chair and got out the mugs more aggressively than he needed to.

 

“His pays the most,” Sherlock pointed out from the sitting room. “I mean, it pays for all of Silas's schooling, even if Silas attends Eton and Cambridge. Apparently he's desperate. Also, I've been ignoring his pleas for several months, so he keeps upping the amount of money he's willing to pay me.”

 

John stared at the mugs for a good long while, torn between alpha pride and practical thinking.

 

“Dada,” Silas said, his tone implying that he was being ridiculous. “Dada yes.”

 

John exhaled slowly. “Fine. But I don't have to like him.”

 

“Well, I hate him. So we could form a club of mutual animosity. The opposite of a fan club. A hate club. There will be meetings. I get to be president. You can be vice president. Silas can be treasurer. Except he can't count, so our accounting books will be a mess. But we will be united in our hate and it will be horrible.”

 

“Are you overtired?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Get some sleep.”

 

“Respond to the e-mail for me. I haven't finished reading all the details. I'll take Silas with me, it's time for his nap.”

 

“PAPA NO.”

 

“Yes, Silas, nap time.”

 

“NO. BAD. DEATH.”

 

“'Death' is a new one,” Sherlock said, coming into the kitchen and pulling Silas up from his high chair. “Maybe he'll be saying 'murder' soon.” Sherlock brightened up at the thought. “Or 'experiment.'”

 

“Should I be concerned that most of his words have negative connotations?”

 

“He learned 'dog.'”

 

“After the case where the woman trained her wolf hybrid to kill people. Not the best context, he's terrified of dogs. Probably a bad idea to let him go to that crime scene.”

 

“Well,” Sherlock considered. “He can say 'cake.'”

 

“You taught him that to mock Mycroft.”

 

“Worth it. He can say, 'tea.'”

 

John looked up from the computer and smiled. “That's a good one. Perhaps we haven't corrupted him after all.”

 

“Oh, we've corrupted him. But at least he knows one nice word.”

 

… …

 

John already _hated_ Sebastian Wilkes. He hadn't even met the bloke, but he could tell via e-mail that the man was raging prick. He talked to Sherlock— _Sherlock_ —as though he were an idiot, which John couldn’t even fathom properly.

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It's Sebastian Wilkes, remember me from Uni? Of course you do, we nearly bonded if I recall correctly._

_Listen, I'm sorry to bother you after so many years of radio silence (you know how life gets) but I've run into a spot of trouble at my bank. There's been a break in, and I believe that it was an inside job._

_I hope you understand that this is a very delicate matter. Meaning, we cannot involve the police. I'm sorry if that bothers you (I know how you omegas get about such things), but we can't let the press get wind of this. I'm sure you'll understand._

_I'd be willing to offer you a nice sum of money to take the case and find the inside man._

_Additionally, I was wondering, if you're still unbonded that is, if you would like to get some dinner sometime? We could stick to strictly business related topics, of course. I'd just be delighted to see you again._

_I'll be in touch again soon, but I do hope to hear from you before then._

_Most Affectionately,_

_Sebastian Wilkes_

And then he left his phone number and—would you look at that? His home address. Prat.

 

Some time later he sent another.

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm not certain you received my last e-mail, but it has been over a week since I sent it, and I haven't received a response._

_I'm willing to offer you 25,000 pounds to find out which employee of my bank has been staging break ins. Yes, multiple. We've had another last night. Quite a few things were stolen, but we have managed to cover it up. We're trying not to let the media get wind of this._

_Sebastian Wilkes_

_P.S. Would you be interested in going to get a coffee some time and catch up?_

He sent them regularly for a few months, slowly upping the amount of money he was willing to offer until--

 

“Oh, Jesus,” John breathed. Yep, that was definitely enough to hold them for a while. Swallowing his pride, John typed out a reply.

 

_Dear Mr. Wilkes,_

_I do apologize for not responding to your case sooner. I've had a rather hectic year and have been unable to take many cases._

_I would be happy to drop by your bank at your earliest convenience._

_The aforementioned fee is more than acceptable, I thank you for your generosity in advance._

_Let me know when you are able to see me._

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

John read it over and sent it to Wilkes, intentionally leaving himself out of the e-mail. He was rather looking forward to seeing the look on the bastard's face when John was introduced as Sherlock's alpha and husband.

 

There was a reply before John got out of the chair.

 

_Right away, if that suits you._

_Sebastian Wilkes_

… …

 

Of course, John waited until Sherlock and Silas had woken up from their nap before they bundled up against the winter chill and headed to the bank.

 

They decided to take Silas with them for several reasons. One, Sherlock was started to nest and was becoming even more protective of his baby. Two, the case wasn't dangerous. Three, fuck Sebastian Wilkes and his assumption that Sherlock was single.

 

The last one was solely for John's sake, but Sherlock didn't need to know about it.

 

“Bank's closing soon,” Sherlock pointed out, watching the city pass while he bounced his son in his lap. “I don't usually go to the bank. Will that mean it's empty or crowded?”

 

“What day of the week is it?” John asked, sincerely unable to remember anything other than the fact that his omega was carrying two children inside of him. That sort of news throws your day off a bit.

 

“Friday.”   
  
“Friday is payday. It will be chaos. God help us all.” John resigned himself to pushing people out of the way so that NO ONE TOUCHED HIS OMEGA. God damn nesting instincts.

 

“Bone,” Silas said solemnly. He stared at John for a moment before sticking his fist in his mouth, as though that held all the secrets to the universe.

 

Hell, for all John knew, it did.

 

“How long has he been saying 'bone'?” John asked.

 

“About three days,” Sherlock grinned. “It is a lovely word and I approve wholeheartedly.”

 

They arrived at the bank and, yes, fought their way through crowds of excited Londoners with pockets full of cash to burn over the weekend. Sherlock somehow talked their way right to Wilkes's office, where John chatted with the nice receptionist lady until Wilkes could see them.

 

Sherlock handed Silas to John and entered the office with his usual, coat swirling dramatic flair.

 

“Took you long enough,” the overly-slick Wilkes said in reproach, before seeing that John had a baby and catching the scent of a pregnant omega. “Ah...”

 

Oh, that completely dumbfounded expression. It was perfect. It was _beyond_ perfect. It made John want to dance around the room and also punch Wilkes in the face for good measure.

 

“Sorry,” John said, taking the seat beside Sherlock and settling Silas down in his lap. “We couldn't get someone to watch the baby. Don't worry, he won't leak anything to the press.” John held out his hand. “John Watson-Holmes. Pleasure to meet you.”

 

Wilkes looked like shaking John's hand was one of the last things he wanted to do, but he did it anyway. “Yes, ah. Pleasure's all mine. Well, I can see you've been rather busy, Sherlock. I'm sorry, but I am a bit floored by this. How did you two meet, if you don't mind me asking?”

 

“I stumbled across John while working a case eighteen months ago,” Sherlock said easily. “We were bonded less than three days later. Love at first sight and all that stupid nonsense. So, you've got someone robbing you blind from the inside. I'm going to need details and I'll need to speak to all potential suspects.”

 

“Right,” Wilkes said, still looking a bit shell shocked. “And you have a baby?”

 

“Yes, that's Silas,” Sherlock said dismissively. “He's six months old. He isn't relevant to the case. When did the break ins occur?”

 

“And you're pregnant?”

 

“For Christ's sake,” Sherlock finally groaned. “Yes, I am pregnant. I'm an omega. It happens. Kind of a lot. Can we please just get to the case?”

 

“I just never would have guessed. A _husband? Really?_ ”

 

“Yes,” John sighed. “Husband. I'm the husband, that is. Sorry to disappoint. You had a case to be solved? Rather pressing, if I do recall?”

 

Wilkes visibly shook himself and laid down the facts of the case.

 

“I don't know how they're getting in and out. No sign of forced entry. But our security deposit boxes are being emptied.”

 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “What, do you check the contents regularly? If there was no sign of entry, how would you even guess something was stolen?”

_“_ Pure chance,” Sebastian admitted. “A customer wanted to access her box and found that the contents were missing. We hushed it up, but in the interest of thoroughness, we checked the other boxes and found that hers was not the only one. I e-mailed you after this and set up a motion detector in the room. It alerted me about a week later that someone had entered at around three in the morning. The security tapes showed nothing. I believe we were fed a loop, like in films? Anyway, that's when I e-mailed you again. It has been happening regularly since the first incident several months ago. We keep hoping it will stop but… our bank is no longer a safe place for storing valuables. And I’ve already said why we haven’t gone to the police. ”

 

“Yes, I see why you don't want the media involved,” Sherlock sighed, placing his hand on the small bulge of his abdomen as he thought. “No one would want to use to bank for security deposits again. And Lord knows the Yard can't manage to be discreet for more than an hour. Alright, I'll officially take the case. I won't drop it until I've solved it, although I don't think that it will take all that long. John, give me Silas. I feel the urge to snuggle.”

 

John wordlessly passed his omega their son and gleefully watched Wilkes take in the exchange with something akin to horror.

 

“Shall we start now, darling?” John asked Sherlock.

 

“In the morning,” Sherlock said, standing, snuggling Silas to his chest. “It's an international bank, and technically people will still be working here all night, but the regular staff will be heading home after closing. I believe that is where we need to focus the investigation, so for tonight it will be enough to get a look at the bank's layout. Seb, old friend, do you happen to have blueprints of the building?” The question was directed with a heavy layer of sarcasm and condescension. Wilkes looked like he was regretting those e-mails he sent.

 

“Of course, but I'd rather they didn't leave the bank. Can't have you using them to plan any robberies yourselves now, can I?”

 

“At the moment, leaving them in the bank hasn't exactly proved to be secure, has it?” John pointed out, to Wilkes's distaste.

 

Wilkes led them out of his instructed his secretary to get Sherlock the requested documents. The secretary delayed for several moments, which she spent cooing over Silas, but both John and Sherlock found this an acceptable delay, as Silas was adorable and deserved any and all cooing he received.

 

“Just get them the blueprints!” Wilkes finally snapped, losing patience at the scene of domestic bliss in front of him. He stalked back into his office and slammed the door.

 

“He really was counting on you being single,” John observed as the secretary left them. “I'd feel bad for him if I didn't hate him.”

 

“There are two alphas for every omega,” Sherlock pointed out. “He's on the unlucky half of the spectrum. Not rich enough to get a mate through influence and not a good enough person to get a mate through mutual respect and affection.”

 

“He should try _Matchmaker_ ,” John suggested with a smirk. “I've heard that it's a miracle.”

  
Sherlock snorted and clutched Silas tighter. “I know of a fascinating redheaded omega in prison that's still looking for a mate. If he doesn't mind having a psychotic omega, that is.”

 

“He _was_ interested in you, after all,” John pointed out. 

 

“Ouch. Touche,” Sherlock conceded. “Although if I flatter myself, I would believe that I am better company than a serial killer.”

 

“Marginally.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

They were interrupted when Silas decided to suddenly start babbling at the top of his little lungs after being uncharacteristically quiet during the meeting.

 

“Shh,” Sherlock halfheartedly tried to quiet the baby. “Screaming in public is frowned upon.”

 

Silas kept screeching with a smile on his face, making noise for the sake of making noise.

 

The secretary took this opportunity to return, laughing when she saw that Silas was apparently testing the full potential of his lungs.

 

“I have it here. Mr. Wilkes requested that you look at it briefly and give it back to me when you finish.”

 

Sherlock passed Silas off to John and flipped through the papers, doubtlessly memorizing ever single line.

 

“That will be all,” he said, after a few moments, handing it back to the surprised secretary. “John, come. We need to get some food and head back home and then eat more food.”

 

“I have to admit, I think I like pregnant you better than regular you. The eating habits anyway.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked off, but John was fairly certain he heard him asking his baby bump what it wanted for dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story starts jumping around a bit here, and I apologize, but I'm setting up two cases that will run into other chapters.

_A nesting omega will begin establishing his or her territory. This is typically the home of the omega, but on occasion omegas will begin unconsciously marking any place they feel would be a safe haven to deliver their pup._

… …

 

“Sherlock? What are you doing?”

 

Sherlock sighed. He felt it should have been obvious. It wasn't as though he spent his time hugging the walls of the flat on a regular basis.

 

“I'm scenting the flat, John. Establishing territory. It's a nesting thing. You did something similar when Silas was born.”

 

“When Silas was born, I rubbed my spunk in front of the front door because instincts are weird. I didn't hug the same patch of wall for thirty minutes.”

 

Sherlock pulled himself away from the wall and frowned at John, who was drinking tea and watching Sherlock from his armchair. “In all honesty,” Sherlock said with a huff, sitting down in his own chair, “I think mine is a more normal response. More sanitary at least.”

 

“Says the man who rubbed _his_ spunk in front of the _nursery_ door. Let's just agree that instincts make us do strange things and move on. Do you have any ideas about the case?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, settling his hands over his stomach. “It's laughably simple. Obviously, one of the tellers and one of the security guards are working together. I just need to speak with them tomorrow and we'll have this sorted in a pinch. Call Lestrade, we'll need to line up a new case after this, something with a serial killer. For God's sake, something interesting, please. I was online shopping for matching outfits today. I need to think of something not-babies.”

 

“Alright, but we’ll do that in the morning. It’s getting late.” The last sentence was delivered with significant emphasis. Sherlock rolled his eyes internally.  

 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. He recognized that tone. “You’re about to seduce me.”

 

“Nonsense,” John protested, standing up and making significant glances towards the bedroom. “Unless, of course, you want to be seduced.”

 

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at his husband. “You’re being a bit ridiculous. We’ve been together for eighteen months, John. That’s a year and a half of sex.”

 

“Stop complaining and let me take the time to seduce you properly,” John snapped. He stomped off towards the bedroom. “Are you coming or not?”

 

“Is that a euphemism?” Sherlock called after him, getting to his feet.

 

“Fuck you, Sherlock!”

 

“I thought that was the point?”

 

“Just get your arse in here already.”

 

Sherlock, like a good little omega, followed his alpha’s command.

 

… … 

 

“Laughably easy,” Sherlock concluded, the next morning at the bank. “Sebastian, you're blind if you did not see this for yourself. The robberies took place every time your security guard Heather Rose took a double shift. She was working with her boyfriend, the teller Robert Manson. As his shift came to a close, he would look at bank records to see which security deposit boxes hadn't been opened in quite some time and would not likely be missed. He nicked the keys and passed them to Miss Rose, who held onto them until her night shift. She then looped the security feed, you were correct on that account, and made off with the contents of the security deposit box. The other security guards were paid off to keep their silence, and the thieving would have continued unnoticed for months had the first box not been accessed. I have to point out that the management of the bank made a mistake. Manson and Rose would have continued this had the known the first robbery was discovered, however you hushed it up so well that very few employees even knew that something was happening. Had they known management was suspicious, they would have stopped immediately, and none of the subsequent robberies would have taken place. Fortunately for you, they haven't sold most of the valuables yet. Those can still be returned to their proper place, their owners none the wiser. Thank you for your time. This has been riveting.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, waiting for John to compliment him. John always complimented him. It was what Johns did.

 

“That would have looked more impressive had you not been thrown up on by a baby in the middle,” John said instead of complimenting him.

 

Sherlock glared at Silas, who was in fact happily vomiting on Sherlock's shoulder.

 

“I'd be disgusted if I weren't so used to it,” Sherlock lamented, turning to Sebastian instead for the praise he deserved.

 

“That's all?” Sebastian said instead. “Just two people on the inside? No conspiracy?”

 

“Well, there is a conspiracy,” Sherlock admitted. “One of your employees in connected to a Chinese smuggling ring, but you didn't ask me to investigate that. And John said it was too dangerous and I'm inclined to agree. I'll be back in seven months to wrap that up, but just hold tight until then. We'll accept cash or check for our payment. If you do write a check, please make it out to John Watson-Holmes. John will take care of that. I have to change a nappy and scrub vomit out of my shirt. I'll be back momentarily.”

 

Sherlock turned with a flourish and stalked to the bathroom, sadly admitting that crime solving lost some of the glamor when you had a child with you.

 

But they had enlisted Mrs. Hudson that morning and she had agreed to watch Silas for a few days while they took a look at a collection murders (serial killer!) that had left Lestrade stumped. After they dropped Silas off, Sherlock and John were headed to Scotland Yard to jump back into the fray for possibly the last time until the twins were born. He wasn't looking forward to seven months spent with petty private cases and domestic murders, but he was not nearly so callous as some people believed and would never knowingly put his children in danger.

 

Unless it was an extreme emergency and maybe a _really fascinating_ serial killer, or unless the situation got away from him, but in that case he would leave most of the shooting and the chasing to John.

 

Because after all, domestic or no, he was still Sherlock Holmes. Nothing was ever _really_ going to keep him away from investigating. So long as there were criminals breaking the law, so long as Scotland Yard was perpetually unable to remove its head from its arse, Sherlock would be there, fixing what seemed irreparably broken to the rest of the world.

 

It was just what he did.

 

… …

 

Saying goodbye to Silas took longer than it probably should have, but this was going to be their longest separation yet. John went over his routine with Mrs. Hudson about five times while Sherlock washed away the last of the baby puke and changed his shirt. Then they both said goodbye one more time, covered Silas with kisses, and hailed a cab to Scotland Yard.

 

They heard Silas crying for them as they shut the front door and Sherlock nearly gave up on the whole thing to comfort his son.

 

“We don't want to make him co-dependent,” John reminded Sherlock, although his expression clearly stated he wanted to kick the door down and rescue Silas from the evil clutches of Mrs. Hudson. “He needs to learn to self-regulate. A secure attachment is a good thing, but he's six months old and we haven't left him with anyone else for more than nine hours.”

 

“He doesn’t have object permanence, John,” Sherlock whined. “He thinks we’re never coming back.”

 

“But we will,” John said confidently. “Silas needs to know that we will always come back.”  

 

So they hailed a cab. And they sat extremely close to each other because they were cold. Not because they both needed comfort from missing their son. It was frigid outside and they were sharing body warmth.

 

Yeah. That was it.

 

… …

 

“Afternoon, Lestrade,” Sherlock said in bored greeting as he entered the D.I.'s office. Then, his body acting without first consulting his brain, he strode across the room and hugged the wall.

 

“What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, sounding both amused and concerned.

 

“I'm not sure,” Sherlock admitted, a bit surprised by his actions. “I don't have complete control over my body right now.”

 

“He's scenting the office,” John answered for both their sakes. “Sherlock's stress over the pregnancy has kicked his nesting behaviors into overdrive. Don't worry. It just means that he would be perfectly comfortable giving birth in your office, if the occasion were to arise.”

 

“THAT'S ENOUGH WITH THE WALL, THEN,” Lestrade declared with a note of panic in his voice, making shooing gestures with his hands. (He had learned a week ago that it was a very bad idea to put his hands on a pregnant Sherlock while John was in the immediate vicinity. Fortunately, he did not press charges for assaulting an officer, which an apologetic John was grateful for.)

 

“Right,” Sherlock said, removing himself from the wall and straightening his coat like nothing happened. “I heard you have a really fascinating string of homicides.”

 

Lestrade spared his wall one last concerned look before opening a file folder on his desk. “Yeah, some psychopath has taken to drowning widows. We've got absolutely nothing. All we've been able to do is tell grieving women that they're targets for murder.”

 

“Drowned in...what?” Sherlock asked looking at the pictures. “They're in their homes, no sign of their baths being used. Does the murderer bring his own bucket with him?”

 

“Anderson suggested a kiddie pool,” Lestrade pointed out.

 

“Anderson needs to stop talking,” Sherlock muttered. “They aren't even wet?” Sherlock flipped through the pictures again. “They were found completely dry, but having drowned. Where they unconscious and dipped shallowly into a bucket?”

 

“There's no sign of blunt force trauma,” Lestrade sighed. “And the toxicology reports brought up nothing. If they were unconscious, there's nothing indicating it. No sign of struggle either. I've already had a pathologist roll out the most recent victim. You can take a look for yourself, see what we've missed. We'll swing by the crime scene as well.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock declared, closing the folder and resisting the urge to rub himself on the desk. He had to get this scenting thing under control before he embarrassed himself further.

 

“And where's Silas?” Lestrade asked. “Even though it's completely inappropriate to take your baby to a murder investigation, I actually miss the little tyke.”

 

“We’ve left him with Mrs. Hudson. We wanted to be able to focus solely on the case for as long as we can manage. I won’t be able to investigate murders after this, really. So we’re having one last extensive case before my delicate state renders me useless,” Sherlock finished bitterly.

 

Lestrade looked a bit confused. “You're only, what, two months along by now? You've got time.”

 

“Under normal circumstances, yes,” Sherlock sighed, letting his coat fall away and revealing shirt buttons straining over a visible bump. “But biology has decided to be evil and gift us with an extra pup.”

 

Lestrade looked like he was about to pass out. “Oh God, you're bringing two more Holmes babies into the world? Heaven help us all.”

 

“My thoughts exactly,” John said with an insufferably smug grin on his face.

 

God, Sherlock hated that smile.

 

… …

 

“Tina Howard,” John read from the file as Sherlock examined the body. “It says here she was found yesterday, early in the morning, by her housekeeper.”

 

“Found in the sitting room,” Sherlock recited from memory, trying to locate any signs of struggle or restraint on the body. “No splash marks, no wet patch, no indication she was moved. Drowning on dry land.”

 

“See anything?” John asked after a long while.

 

Sherlock didn't answer, pulling back the victim's thick brown hair to examine the side of her face when--

 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, pulling out his magnifying glass. “John, get Molly, I need to know if she spotted this.”

 

“Molly didn't perform this autopsy,” John pointed out.

 

“That means she didn't fill out the form. Do you really think she missed the chance to examine a victim of a serial killer?”

 

John went to go get Molly. He returned a minute later, apologetically dragging a frazzled looking Molly along with him.

 

“Molly, did you see this?” Sherlock asked, pointing to the tiny abrasion just above the victim's ear.

 

“Yes,” she said, looking a little nervous. “But it was postmortem. You know that the bodies get a bit dinged up on the way. She would have gotten that if she was rubbed against the zip on the bag.”

 

“This is a very specific pattern,” Sherlock said, vibrating with excitement. “See the slight markings? That's _elastic_. An elastic band. The killer must have had one around her head, pulling it too tight when it was removed, damaging the skin.”

 

“Like rope burn?” John asked, peering at the mark.

 

“Elastic burn,” Sherlock corrected. “Tiny elastic burn.”

 

“But...” Molly looked confused. “Why on Earth would he need elastic?”

 

Sherlock frowned at the corpse, examining the area around the nose and mouth. “I have a theory,” he said. “I have several, actually, but one in particular. I need to see the crime scene if I'm going to be sure. John, where did Lestrade go?”

 

“To get lunch,” John informed Sherlock. “Just after we got here. He made a point of telling you that.”

 

Sherlock waved the information away. “Text him. I need access to that crime scene.”

 

“Done here, then?” Molly asked, cleaning up after Sherlock.

 

“Almost,” he said, before striding over to the nearest wall and giving it a good hug.

 

“You are not giving birth in the morgue,” John informed him after several seconds.

 

“I don't plan to,” Sherlock assured him. He did not stop hugging the wall.

 

“Should I be concerned?” Molly asked, sounding extremely concerned.

 

John explained the whole scenting and territory marking madness that had been greatly accelerated when Sherlock discovered he was carrying two pups. Molly enthusiastically squealed over the idea of a _whole other baby_ for several minutes until Sherlock was satisfied that the wall knew exactly who it belonged to.

 

“Let's go,” he commanded, moving from wall to door like it was a common occurrence. “We have four murders to solve in three days.”

 

… …

 

“Markings on the rug,” Sherlock pointed out as soon as they entered the room. “Here, here, here, and here.” The small indentations made a rather large square. “Something was being weighed down. A tarp, or a sheet of plastic, most likely.”

 

Lestrade blinked at Sherlock for a moment before gesturing for him to continue.

 

“So the drowning was not as water-less as the killer wishes for it to appear,” Sherlock said, beginning to pace the room as ideas started to come together. “There was some spillage on the ground. But how was the ground getting wet and not the victim? If they were conscious, shouldn't they have been thrashing, fighting? The answer: they were bound.”

 

“There were no marks on the victims wrists--” Lestrade started to interrupt.

 

Sherlock waved him off. “There are ways to bind ankles and wrists without leaving marks. The victim was wearing long sleeves, and some tapes are designed only to stick to themselves—bondage tape comes to mind—and  wouldn't leave any marks through the clothes, especially if the killer had specifically tried to keep from cutting off the blood flow. Now, how did he drown them without submersing at least their face in water? Answer: a little bit of clever innovation.”

 

“Sherlock, please get to the point, people are in danger,” Lestrade sighed.

 

“Tina Howard had a small elastic abrasion above her left ear. What would cause an abrasion like that? What is strapped to the face by the thin band of elastic? John, you’re a doctor, you should know.”

 

John looked up at the ceiling, as though it held the answer, and stuck out his tongue slightly as he thought. “Uh...an oxygen mask?”

 

“Precisely!” Sherlock clapped his hands, pleased that his alpha wasn't an idiot all of the time. “An oxygen mask! Or, at least, a modified version. Nearly airtight and designed to dispense a steady stream of water instead of oxygen. You notice I say, _nearly_ airtight. If there was complete suction, small marks would have been left around the victim's nose and mouth. However, the killer knew not to press too hard. Some water would have leaked out through the side, running down the victim's face and onto the plastic sheeting he set up. Once the victim was unable to continue fighting the steady rush of water to her lungs, he turned off his drowning machine, wiped off her face with a flannel, and removed the sheeting. All of it could have been packed discretely away in a decent sized bag, allowing him to slip away without drawing too much attention. There you have it, dry land drowning.”

 

Lestrade made furious notes on a pad of paper, and John made slightly less thorough notes in his tiny black notebook.

 

“Brilliant,” John said, putting his pen away and meeting Sherlock's gaze with a blinding smile. “Absolutely brilliant.”   
  
“That's all well and good, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, “but do you have any idea who did it?”

 

Sherlock deflated slightly. “Not yet. I'll need to work on that some. The killer has been very active. Four murders in less than two weeks? He'll strike any day. And when he does, I'm confident that I will be able to find him.”

 

Lestrade looked appeased. John looked like he wanted to wrap Sherlock up in a fluffy blanket and keep him that way forever.

 

Which was a really oddly specific thought. Sherlock frowned, wondering if that was instinct's way of telling him it was time to relax in the comfort of his alpha's care.

 

He made a face. God, this was annoying.

 

“Let's go home for a while,” John said, taking Sherlock's hand. “If there's nothing you can do right now. We've left Mrs. Hudson alone with Silas for over eight hours now. She could use a little break.”

 

“I need to review the other victim's files,” Sherlock sighed, although home sounded very good. _Home safe nest safe comfort safe pups home nest safe,_ the tiny omega in the back of Sherlock's head kept chanting.

 

“I'll convince Lestrade to let you take the copies home,” John assured him. “You didn't eat lunch, and skipping dinner is absolutely unacceptable. You're--”

 

“Feeding three people, yes John, I'm well aware,” Sherlock interrupted with a sneer. “You keep reminding me. Yes, fine. We'll get some food and go home for a few hours. Whatever you say, alpha.”

 

John rolled his eyes and ignored his mate's outburst, giving him a kiss on the cheek instead. “Good. I'll talk to Lestrade. You call a cab. And don't pretend you aren't as desperate to hold our baby as I am.”

 

Sherlock had to conceded that he was, in fact, rather desperate to hold his baby. Or at least just smell his head.

 

_Yeah. Smell the baby._

 

 _Stop being weird, little omega_. Sherlock internally rolled his eyes and pulled out his cellphone.

 

… …

 

“So then he drowned them with an oxygen mask,” Sherlock finished, burrowing his nose in Silas's wispy curls. “It was beautifully ironic. And now we need to wait for him to kill again for new data. This is what happens when Uncle Lestrade is useless and won't call me for things as soon as they get interesting, and instead he waits for all the data to be old and unhelpful. Two of the victims have already been _buried_. Buried, Silas. I can't do anything with them then. And another's funeral is being held tomorrow. I've been informed that I am not allow to delay the funeral by demanding to examine her body again.”

 

“Bad,” Silas agreed.

 

“And Daddy said that I was being petulant and childish,” Sherlock complained. “Daddy is very mean.”

 

“Bad Dada,” Silas supported.

 

“Hey!” John called from the kitchen, where he was trying to make some semblance of a healthy meal. “I can hear you two! Stop corrupting our son!”

 

“Are you corrupted, Silas?”

 

“Yes.” Silas smacked Sherlock's chest for no apparent reason.

 

“Too late!” Sherlock informed John. “No hitting,” he informed Silas.

 

John came into the room with a bowl of pasta containing both fresh greens and grilled chicken. Sherlock's bowl was considerably larger than John's. “Eat all of it,” John ordered him. “You can pretend that I'm forcing you so you don't have to feel bad about wanting to eat so much.”

 

Sherlock sat Silas down on a blanket spread on the ground for that purpose and took the bowl from John. Silas sat up and started beating a rhythm on the ground, entertaining himself with the smacking noises he made.

 

“Mrs. Hudson said he was a terror,” Sherlock informed John bluntly. “Wouldn't stop crying for us. Finally passed out after a few hours.”

 

“He might present as an omega, then,” John told Sherlock. “Research shows that they tend to be very emotionally dependent and clingy babies.”

 

“Lies,” Sherlock said stubbornly, beginning to shovel food into his mouth.

 

“Mycroft has told me that you would scream for him until you were blue in the face.”

 

“Mycroft likes to pretend his existence is important.”

 

“He also said that you wouldn't voluntarily let go of Mummy until you were three years old.”

 

“Mycroft does drugs.”

 

“No, he doesn't.”

 

“He must,” Sherlock insisted. “His memory is far too inaccurate. I believe he suffers from some sort of brain damage, narcotics use most likely.”

 

“Mycroft is not the one who did drugs,” John sighed, eating his pasta.

 

“Then he's crazy,” Sherlock decided. “Because I was an angelic child.”

 

At that John started laughing. And laughing. And laughing. He had to put down his food to wipe the tears running down his face.

 

“My dear,” John finally sighed, when he got his breath back. “You are absolutely mad. And I love you to death. Silas is gnawing on furniture. I'll be right back.”

 

John got up to chase after their surprisingly mobile baby, leaving Sherlock to sulk on the sofa. He turned his attention to his food, eating his feelings instead of voicing them.

 

John returned Silas to his little blanket and retrieved his food, sitting back down next to Sherlock and making another go at the pasta.

 

“When do you talk to Mycroft?” Sherlock asked after a moment.

 

“Sometimes he kind of just...shows up,” John responded. “I don't know. I'm running errands or watching Silas and he sort of appears. It's weird. And creepy.”

 

“He just teleports in, tells you stories about my childhood, and then leaves again?”

 

“Sometimes he offers me money to do sketchy things,” John added. “I never do it. But yeah, more often than not it's just weird stories. One time, I was at Tesco and I turned around and he was standing behind me. He just said, 'When Sherlock was Silas's age, he had a stuffed bee he cuddled with as he slept,' and then he just left. I found a package on the doorstep later that day with a stuffed bumble bee inside. It's like he's trying to be a good uncle, but is going about it in the most awkward and creepy way he possibly could.”

 

Sherlock gave a snort of laughter. “God forbid, Mycroft has children, if this is how he acts as an uncle.”

 

John chuckled. “Could you imagine? They'd be playing outside and he would just appear and say, 'That tree over there in a non-native invasive species,' and vanish.”

 

“Or imagine the horror of a bunch of little Mycrofts running around.”

 

“With their brollies and their suits.”   


“All of them trying to get their cousins to do their bidding.”

 

They shared a good laugh before John sighed, “As karma for this conversation, I bet Mycroft's going to suddenly show up and introduce us to his six secret children.”

 

Sherlock shuddered. “Heavens no. It's bad enough for the world that I keep reproducing. Let's try to keep the Holmes contribution to the gene pool at a minimum.”

 

“Probably for the best.”

 

“Indeed.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“As the pregnancy progresses, the omega will begin obsessively cleaning their nest, making it as welcoming as possible for their new pup.”_

… …

 

The serial killer didn't strike again. He had, apparently, made whatever point he had wanted to make and decided to go into hiding before the police could catch him.

 

Sherlock spent a few days solving cold cases and domestic homicides, waiting for the killer to strike, but gave up after he had completely plastered the 'case wall' with facts about the victims, theories regarding the killer's identity, and any connections he could find.

 

John, personally, was a bit relieved when Sherlock dropped it. Had a progressing pregnancy not been sapping his strength, he undoubtedly would have refused to let it go. As it was, weeks passed and Sherlock's stomach grew at an alarming rate. He spent more time sulking on the couch than he probably should have, but the flat remained mostly intact.

 

John says 'mostly' because Silas mastered the art of crawling and treated his newly discovered mobility as an excuse to break everything. John spent a whole day setting up safety gates and baby proofing the flat (with no help from Sherlock of course, except to be occasionally informed that he was doing something wrong) since he couldn't devote every second of every day watching Silas as he happily traversed the floor.

 

Silas's first Christmas passed with the same sort of organized chaos that they managed to get through every day of their normal lives. Mycroft forced them to attend Christmas dinner with Mummy and Mr. Holmes (which John thought was actually a rather lovely time, and Mummy had only met Silas once previously, so a good deal of grandmotherly bonding took place) and Silas ripped all the wrapping paper with the pure, untainted joy only expressed by babies that have no idea what the hell is going on, but like it anyway.

 

All in all, it was a pretty stressful time, but John couldn't honestly say that he would rather be anywhere else.

 

… …

 

John woke up to the feeling of Sherlock kissing the back of his neck.

 

“Morning, darling,” John greeted him sleepily. He rolled over and planted a firm-if-closed-mouth kiss on Sherlock's lips. “How long have you been up?”

 

“About thirty minutes,” Sherlock said, trying and failing to sit up. “That's-- oh God.”

 

“What?!” John was up and at Sherlock's side on a second. “What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing!” Sherlock pushed John back. “Calm down. I just...appear to have had a bit of a growth spurt last night.” He pushed the covers back to reveal a sizable bump that was definitely not as noticeable the evening before. “That's just...alarming. I mean, I knew logically that I would have to grow very quickly to accommodate the masses of two embryos, but I didn't think the change would be quite so dramatic.”

 

“You look...considerably bigger than three months,” John said, rather lamely, he must admit.

 

“Nearly four months,” Sherlock corrected. “And I suppose it's to be expected. Into the second trimester, a single baby would only just start making a bigger appearance. Two, apparently, have decided to make me look like I'm smuggling footballs.” 

 

“It's lovely,” John decided, leaning over to plant a light kiss on the tummy and then a more thorough his on Sherlock's mouth. “Absolutely lovely.”

 

“You're smiling that smile.”

 

“What smile?”

 

“The smile you wear when you're feeling particularly smug about being an alpha. I don't know what you're so proud of, to be fair. It wasn't particularly hard to put them there.”

 

“I worked my arse off to put them there,” John protested.

 

“Well...”

 

“Oh, shut it,” John grumbled, helping Sherlock get to his feet. “What do you want for breakfast?”

 

“Everything,” Sherlock said decisively.

 

“Deal,” John agreed. “I'll get started on that. By everything, you mean eggy bread and tea, right?”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed, as though the word 'everything' was synonymous with eggy bread and tea and John was just being ridiculous.

 

“Of course,” John repeated.

 

The morning was quiet. Sherlock bounced their eight-month old son on his knee (getting difficult with the growing stomach) while watching John prepare breakfast with something akin to lust. Correction: he was staring at the eggy bread with something akin to lust.

 

“Hungry?” John asked, his voiced laced with amusement.

 

“Go fuck yourself, John.”

 

“Silas is repeating words,” John reminded him. “Careful.”

 

“Make the food faster.”

 

“I'm working on it, darling.”

 

“You're not working on it fast enough. I could eat _anything_ right now, John. _Anything_.”

 

“Quit your whining,” John scolded, setting a plate heaping with eggy bread in front of Sherlock. “Christ, and there once was a time where I was ecstatic to hear you were hungry.”

 

“Silly John,” Sherlock sighed affectionately. “You should know much better by now.

 

“I really should,” John lamented. “Give me Silas, I'll get him his breakfast. Slow down, you'll make yourself sick.”

 

“I do what I want,” Sherlock insisted, inhaling the meal.

 

John rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I know.”

 

… …

 

John watched Sherlock from his armchair, running his fingers through Silas's hair and trying to determine if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

 

“Are you _cleaning?_ ” John asked incredulously.

 

Sherlock looked up from his task of organizing his papers and scowled. “Of course, what did it look like I was doing? Learning how to speak Swedish? Really, John.”

 

“You _never_ clean.”

 

“Instinct!” Sherlock said, annoyed.

 

“You only cleaned the bedroom with Silas.”

 

“Twice the pups, twice the cleaning. Do you have a problem?”

 

“Not even slightly,” John said honestly. “I just feel like I should help.”

 

“Don't,” Sherlock warned. “Trust me when I tell you that I won't appreciate it all the much. The stupid omega instinct is convinced that you helping me means that I'm doing this wrong and I'm failing at being a good mate. So just. Let me clean. Or something.”

 

“Step one, scenting,” John recited, watching Sherlock continue his frantic task. “That was bloody hilarious, and you can't deny it. I thought Greg was going to faint when you started scenting his office.”

 

“I'm well aware of the nesting steps, John,” Sherlock snapped.

 

“Step two, cleaning,” John continued, ignoring Sherlock. “You're getting along rather nicely. You're doing a very good job cleaning up, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock preened under the praise for a moment before realizing what he was doing. “Stop,” he insisted, flushing slightly.

 

“Step three is comfort,” John sighed. “I suppose you're going to turn the bed into a nest again.”

 

“No,” Sherlock said, pouting slightly. “That's step five. I don't know how step three will show itself yet. It's different for every pregnancy.”

 

“Instincts are weird,” John said decisively.

 

“So we have established in the past. Toss me that rag, will you?”

 

… …

 

“Sebastian Wilkes is texting you,” John announced some time later. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No.”

 

John reread the message. “He said he wants you to investigate the smuggling ring.”

 

“Why? I told him I'd do it in a few months.”

 

“Yes, well, apparently something happened that he's refusing to talk about in these texts.”

 

Sherlock looked up from his instinct-mandated cleaning and frowned. “Do you think we should talk to him?”

 

“No, but you're curious, aren't you?”

 

Sherlock warred internally for all of three seconds before admitting, “Yes.”

 

“Well,” John said after a moment. “Mrs. Hudson is in.”

 

Sherlock broke into a smile. “I'll pack a bag. You convince her to watch Silas. We leave in five minutes.”

 

Silas, of course, threw a fit when he saw that both of his parents were leaving him. John and Sherlock both tried to say goodbye like nothing was happening and that they were just going to pop out for a few minutes, but Silas seemed to have a sixth sense for when they were leaving him with Mrs. Hudson for more than an hour. He screwed up his perfect little face and cried big fat unhappy tears until John and Sherlock finally fled out of self-preservation.

 

They curled up against each other unhappily during the cab ride, resolutely _not_ thinking about their crying baby.

 

… …

 

“What, no baby this time—JESUS CHRIST.”

 

Wilkes looked a bit shocked at Sherlock's tailored maternity coat and the football sized bump it did very little to conceal.

 

“Don't,” Sherlock warned. “I'm here because I'm curious. What's changed in the last two months that made you contact me again?”

 

Wilkes removed his gaze from Sherlock's middle, blinked a few times, before finally shutting his mouth and clearing his throat. “Eddie VanCoon. He was found murdered in his apartment a few days ago. Well, the thought it was suicide at first, but another bloke turned up killed the exact same way yesterday. I thought—well, I mean, I thought that you could at least tell me if they were connected. Are you sure I shouldn't be concerned about this smuggling ring, thing?”

 

“It should keep for five more months,” Sherlock said dismissively.

 

“Well,” Wilkes said, “I was wondering if you would just look into it, make sure that no more of my employees are in danger.”

 

Sherlock looked at John, tempted but listening to his common sense.

 

John took a deep breath, reassured himself that he had his gun with him, and nodded at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock gave John a relieved smile and turned back to Wilkes. “We will look into it, but only on a superficial level.” Sherlock gestured to his tummy. “I'm sure you can see why I'm reluctant to go running after a gang of smugglers that don't seem to have any qualms about killing people.”

 

“Thank you,” Wilkes said. He nodded to Sherlock's belly. “And...congratulations, by the way. I don't know if I would have pegged you for the domestic type, Holmes.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Thanks,” he said, making a face. “I think. Anyway, just give us the address of this VanCoon fellow and we'll give it a look. I'm sure what we'll be able to gather, but I'll get back to you soon.”

 

John accepted the address, made Sherlock's goodbyes for him, and followed his omega out of the bank, praying that they weren't about to find themselves like Alice down a very dangerous rabbit hole and make a huge mistake.

 

… …

 

“John,” Sherlock said in the dark of the abandoned tunnel. “In light of recent events, I think it's safe to say that I may have made a mistake.”

 

“I told you, Sherlock. I bloody told you, and look at what happened,” John seethed quietly, waiting for their captors to returns while he expertly worked his way out of the zip ties. “'Let's just go to the circus,' you said. ‘I'm sure nothing bad will happen,' you said. 'If nothing else, we can enjoy the show, we haven't been on a date in ages!' Sherlock Watson-Holmes, I could bloody murder you right now and I wouldn't even feel bad about it for a few seconds.”

 

“We went home right after!” Sherlock protested. “How was I supposed to know they would recognize me?”

 

“RECOGNIZE THE PREGNANT MALE OMEGA WHO HAS BEEN FOLLOWING THEM AROUND ALL DAY?! HM. YEAH. WONDER HOW THEY DID THAT? IT'S NOT LIKE TWO PERCENT OF THE HUMAN POPULATION ARE OMEGA MALES!”

 

“No need to shout, John.”

 

“I CAN BLOOD WELL SHOUT IF I WANT TO. OUR BABIES ARE IN DANGER!”

 

“I gather that!” Sherlock snapped, freeing himself from his zip ties. “You were right, by the way. That YouTube tutorial about escaping zip ties _was_ a good time investment. And we're lucky that Silas was asleep in Mrs. Hudson's flat. This could have been worse.”

 

“It's still pretty bad, Sherlock. Some things I'm fine with. I'm fine with breaking into orphaned girl's flat for a good cause. I'm fine with running around looking for graffiti. I'm fine with splitting up to follow different clues. I'm _not_ okay with young women getting murdered in museums because I had to run after you to keep you safe. What the _hell_ were you thinking, _running after the man with the gun?!_ I'm not okay with you refusing to let me into the flat you broke into, _so you could get attacked by assassins._ I'm not okay with you sprinting off, following a lead _without telling me where you are going._ You have a responsibility, Sherlock! You have a responsibility to the human begins growing inside of you! Now, for Christ's sake, get me out of these zip ties, my wedding ring is stuck.”

 

“There's probably a horrible metaphor in there somewhere.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Right.” His ankles were still tied together, but he wriggled over to John from his position on the floor and helped him work the zip ties. It involved a brief removal of the wedding ring (John could feel Sherlock having a small panic attack at that) and some very sore wrists, but John did eventually get free.

 

“Are you okay?” John asked, running his hands over Sherlock's head, where they hit him, and over his stomach, where some very precious cargo was being stored.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock reassured him. “The babies are fine too.”

 

“We're going to the hospital as soon as we get out of this,” John said, fixing Sherlock with a glare before he could argue. “We are going to the hospital, then we're going home, then we're going to have a proper amount of sex, then we're going to sleep for a whole day. No arguing. Alright?”   


Sherlock's lips quirked in amusement. “Alright.”

 

“Good, now let's get out of here.”

 

… …

 

Their captors returned less than three minutes after Sherlock and John freed themselves from the zip ties around their ankles (THAT took some work). They obviously weren't expecting their hostages to be free, and they were even less prepared for one of those hostages to be an alpha in a protective rage.

 

Most of the abandoned tunnel was in shadow. Under John's orders, Sherlock hid where he could be least visible and John used the interspersed patches of darkness to his tactical advantage.

 

John moved while they were still registering their surprise. The first went down with a rather excellent right hook on John's part. He darted back into the protection of darkness as the other three (one an older woman with a pistol, that was a bit more of a surprise) started to panic and search for him.

 

He knew there was no way he could systematically take them all out without getting shot in the process, but so long as it was him that got shot and not Sherlock, he was alright with that.

 

He grabbed another nameless henchman and pulled him into the shadows. There was a scream that quickly cut off and the sound of a body hitting the ground. The older woman (General Shan, John thought, although his memory was a bit fuzzy at this point) raised her pistol and aimed in John's general direction.

 

“You shouldn't fire that pistol.”

 

John could have shot Sherlock himself when he heard his baritone breaking through the chaos.

 

“And why not?” General Shan asked Sherlock, who stepped out of the shadows. “Male omegas are worth a lot of money on the black market. I kill the alpha, then you and your pups are mine to sell.”

 

Sherlock looked a bit disturbed by that. “Well, I mean. Regardless, you shouldn't fire the pistol. Take a look at the tunnel, look at the radius of the curve. If you fire that pistol and miss, the ricochet could send the bullet anywhere. It could hit me, and you'd lose your money. It could hit you, and you'd lose your life. Are either of those chances you are willing to take?”

 

“Yes, actually,” General Shan said, focusing her attention back to the darkness concealing John, who was trying to edge sneakily through the shadows are really not making all that much progress.

 

“Well, admittedly the probability isn't great, but it's still a risk!”

 

There were a few crates in the tunnel (Sherlock had determined that this was where their shipments were held before he had gotten the two of them kidnapped). John edged back, thanking God not for the first time that he had learned how to walk silently in the army, and ducked behind one.

 

Shan's gun was no longer an enormous threat, but now John was worried about that stupid and probably bullshit ricochet thing Sherlock was talking about.

 

“You know, Mr. Holmes, you are a much easier target,” Shan said, turning her pistol away from the shadows and towards Sherlock. She lowered her pistol so it was aimed at Sherlock's abdomen. “It would be a shame to lose healthy pups, but so long as you live, you could be of some use to me.”

 

John gave up trying to be sneaky, took off his shoe and lobbed his shoe at Shan's head. He ducked behind the crates immediately, covering his head and hiding.

 

She yelped, staggered, and fired the pistol in reflex. There was a _ping_ as the bullet hit the wall, followed by the _thunk_ of a body hitting the crowd, and the sound of footsteps retreating very quickly.

 

“Sherlock!” John called out in panic, praying he hadn't made a huge mistake. He leapt to his feet and sighed in relief when he saw his mate standing over General Shan's rather dead body, looking baffled.

 

“Probability,” Sherlock said at last. “We live in a universe of infinite probabilities and possibilities. You should never take a risk that could hurt you in the end.”

 

“All risks can hurt you,” John said, giddy with relief. “That's why they're risks. So the other smugglers just fucked off?”

 

“Ran away,” Sherlock confirmed. He nudged General Shan with his foot. “The bullet rebounded, caught her in the neck, she's bled out by now. Really, such the tiniest chance for the angle to be that perfect.”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“For the next few months, if there is even the smallest chance that something is going to be dangerous, we're not going to test the universe, alright?”

 

“Of course, John.”

 

… …

 

“I thought you idiots were going to be taking it easy,” Greg accused, glaring at the two men huddled under unnecessary shock blankets.

 

“We were supposed to,” Sherlock sighed. “I only meant to confirm the connection between a murder and a smuggling ring...”

 

“We fell down the rabbit hole,” John finished. “Both of us made some mistakes, people died, Sherlock and I sort of but not really saved the day, and now we need to go to the hospital. It was wishful thinking to believe that this _wouldn't_ happen.”

 

“We don't need to go to the hospital,” Sherlock said dismissively.

 

“You are going to the hospital and you are going to make sure that our babies are completely okay, so help me God Sherlock Watson-Holmes. I will drag you there by your hair if I have to.”

 

“Well,” Greg said, sounding uncomfortable. “There's an ambulance here. It could take you.”

 

“I'm fine—John, stop glaring. John, stop it. John. Oh, for God's sake, fine. I'll get in the ambulance. This is stupid.” The detective shuffled over to the ambulance and sat down in the back of it, letting the EMTs look him over for the first time.

 

“And you're alright then?” Greg asked John.

 

John shook his head. “As alright as I can be. I'm shaken. And part of me still wants to kill things. It's going to be a while before everything regulates and we can go back to normal.”

 

“I'm just making sure,” Greg sighed. “I've seen alphas assault police officers when their mate's been through something traumatic. You're handling this very well.”

 

John shrugged. “I've never been a very high instinct alpha. What does come through I can usually stomp down. That's really the reason Sherlock picked me, I think. I can hold back the impulses until it's time to use them.”

 

“Speaking of,” Greg started. “There's a Chinese gangster in that tunnel with his neck snapped. I'm going to assume that was your work?”

 

John didn't say anything.

 

“Don't worry,” Greg reassured him. “The law is actually on your side in this case. You were protecting your mate from a direct threat to his life. You won't go to prison. I just wanted to be sure that you were...alright with that.”

 

“Fine with it,” John said honestly. “Really, the only thing bothering me about this stupid day is that I let Sherlock go as far as he did. I should have made him go home and drop this a long time ago. I just didn't think...”

 

“Well, he wouldn't have appreciated it all that much.”

 

John snorted. “I'd say. He'd be furious. He wouldn't talk to me for a week. That wouldn't end very well.”

 

“I should say not.”

 

Sherlock's voice reached them over the short distance. “IT'S TWINS! I'M NOT FAT!”

 

“I'd better go before Sherlock verbally assaults the EMTs,” John said, waving goodbye to Greg.

 

“You don't enough credit!” Greg called. “Sherlock would have been killed months ago if you weren't there to block most of his insanity!”

 

“Just doing my job!” John called back.

 

… …

 

“Silas! Papa missed you so much!” Sherlock scooped up their son stiffly and held him as closely as he could without suffocating him.

 

“Daddy missed you too,” John added, pressing a light kiss to Silas's curls.

 

“Your siblings are both okay,” Sherlock assured Silas, who babbled a bit in response. “So you don't need to worry about that.”

 

“No,” Silas agreed.

 

“And what are you doing up so late?” Sherlock asked. “Did Mrs. Hudson keep you awake?”

 

“I did no such thing!” Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen, where she was making tea. “He woke up during the whole kidnapping commotion and refused to go back to sleep. That's not healthy, you two need to think about your son before you go gallivanting about the city!”

 

“We're sorry Mrs. Hudson,” John said sincerely. “We never meant to be out that long. Or to be kidnapped. Thank you for watching Silas, and thank you for the tea,” he said as she handed him a cup. “We'll pay you back for this, I promise.”

 

“Say nothing of it!” Mrs. Hudson insisted. “I'm happy to help however I can. But remember, I'm not your nanny!”

 

“We know,” Sherlock and John said in unison.

 

“Go get some sleep, Mrs. Hudson,” John urged. “We'll be alright here. You've done more than enough.”

 

“You boys take better care of yourselves!” she warned. “They'll be two more little lives here before you know it, and I won't be around forever.”

 

“Really can't thank you enough,” John said quickly, not wanting to let his mind travel the anxiety riddled path that Mrs. Hudson was opening up for him. “I hope you sleep well.”

 

“You too, dears,” Mrs. Hudson said, finally leaving to go to her own flat. “You too.”

 

John closed the door politely but firmly behind her, breathed a sigh of relief, and turned back to his husband and son.

 

“We,” John said firmly, “are going to have a long talk about acceptable risks. We are also going to demand a bloody enormous amount of compensation from that Wilkes twat just to make this whole evening even slightly worth it.”

 

“You're right,” Sherlock agreed, looking contrite. “But aside from all that, John, how did you enjoy the circus?” He flashed John a smirk that made the alpha want to roll his eyes.

 

“I'm going to murder you one day, and I don't think that there is a single officer left in the Met that would actually charge me for the crime. Put Silas to sleep and then come to bed. The rest can wait until morning.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to vixis, who wanted to know if Sherlock had cravings, and Lithium Aluminum Hydride...Just add water, who wanted to know what Mummy thought about not getting invited to the wedding. 
> 
> Because, yes, apparently I am taking requests. If you have a suggestion, leave it in the comments.

_A nesting omega will attempt to create a den once their pregnancy progresses to a certain point. He or she will often refuse to leave their den, and become irrationally protective of it._

 

... ...  

When he hit the six month mark, Sherlock gave up trying to salvage whatever reputation he had left.

 

Sherlock knew his dignity had gone past the point of redemption when he decided to pour chocolate syrup on his Tai food. It had tasted horrible, and yet been exactly the thing he wanted to eat, so he’d ate it anyway and ignored John when the stupid alpha started laughing at him.

 

With the very last shreds his pride gone, Sherlock didn’t even fight the next round of instinctual impulses. So when the package arrived in the mail, containing several sets of matching baby clothes he had ordered online, Sherlock just dumped it all on the floor, organized it by color, created an index, and started blubbering with the most absurd happy tears ever cried.

 

John and Silas returned from the park to witness this scene.

 

“How are you feeling?” John asked, looking scared.

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock insisted, his nose running. “I’m perfectly okay.”

 

“Because you look like you’re crying over little bonnets.”

 

“I am,” Sherlock agreed, humiliated.

 

“No,” Silas sighed, sounding fed up with everything.

 

“Ready for your nap?” John asked Silas, turning away from the mess that was once the proud and stoic Sherlock Holmes.

 

Silas looked mutinous for a second before yawning. “Yes,” he admitted in defeat. John carried him up to his nursery, which was in the process of being renovated in order to accommodate two more children.

 

Sherlock heaved himself up to his feet, which took three attempts, and started packing the baby clothes back into their box, being very precise about how he did so.

 

He pushed it to the side and tried to decide how he was going to spend the next few hours. His stomach was officially too big for him to do much. No one mistook him for being more advanced in pregnancy than he was, anymore. He was officially into the territory of ‘multiples.’ Everyone knew that he was far too big to be having one baby, which just made all the stupid citizens of London think that they were suddenly allowed to ask him all sorts of invasive questions about the pregnancy and how he planned on being able to take care of two newborns at once.

 

And when he was out with Silas, he received a few judging looks, as though he was being deemed irresponsible for having so many young children at once.

 

It wasn’t as though it was his fault that was happening. What did they think? Did they actually think he decided to have twins? Did they think he somehow willed himself into that fate while he still had an infant that was dependent on him?

 

 

No he didn’t.

 

Keep your judgments to yourself, idiots.

 

John came back down the stairs while Sherlock was still standing in the sitting room, looking around the flat with an air of frustration.

 

“Bored?” John asked, heading into the kitchen to make tea.

 

How Sherlock missed tea. Proper tea. Not that caffeine free bullshit that John kept trying to force feed him.

 

“I’ve hit another road block with the serial drownings,” Sherlock informed him. “I’ve finally connected the victims, but I still can’t figure out who was behind it all.”

 

“I thought they were all widows?” John asked from the kitchen, doubtlessly wondering why Sherlock was still hung up over a case that was months old.

 

Sherlock didn’t like having unsolved cases on his record, that’s why.  

 

“They were all widows whose husbands died in suspicious circumstances,” Sherlock corrected. “A fact that we’ve been missing. It’s possible they murder them and the serial killer considers himself a vigilante. I discovered that this morning, phoned Lestrade, and found myself, again, without any other details and absolutely nothing to do with my life at all.”

 

John came back into the sitting room and handed Sherlock a cup of that dreadful caffeine free tea. “So you’re bored?” he asked again.

 

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

 

“How bored, exactly?”

 

“John, I alphabetized all of Silas’s stuffed animals.”

 

“Shall I invite Mummy over for dinner?”

 

Sherlock twitched violently. “NO.”

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“No, John.”

 

“We haven’t seen her since Christmas. I still feel bad that we didn’t invite your parents to the wedding. Actually, I still feel bad that I thought they were dead for the first few months of our marriage. And they’ve only met Silas twice now.”

 

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock huffed. “She’s over protective and she…coddles,” Sherlock almost choked on the word, “under _normal_ circumstances. If she finds out that I’m having twins, I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll never leave us alone. SHE WILL ACTUALLY TRY TO MOVE IN WITH US.”

 

“Shh, Silas is sleeping,” John scolded. “And I’m sure that she won’t actually try to move in with us.”

 

“She will,” Sherlock insisted.

 

“Wait,” John thought for a moment. “Did you say ‘if she finds out’ that you’re having twins? You didn’t tell her?”

 

“No,” Sherlock grumbled. “If you hadn’t made us go see her at Christmas, she wouldn’t know that I was pregnant at all.”

 

“That explains a few things, actually. Mainly the _deeply shocked_ looked on her face when we showed up. I honestly thought that was because I actually got you to attend Christmas dinner.”

 

Sherlock got tired of standing and collapsed into his armchair. “I avoid telling Mummy everything I can. I don’t want to hurt her in case something goes wrong.”

 

“You mean…”

 

“I live a dangerous life, John,” Sherlock sighed. “We both do. She didn’t know about Silas until he was born, and I didn’t want her to know about the twins either. If something had happened, during a case, or if one of my numerous enemies decided to strike and I lost the babies…” Sherlock swallowed. “It would break her heart.”

 

“You idiot,” John said fondly. “You like to pretend that you’re a sociopath, but you’re just a cuddly fluff ball, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock flushed. “It’s the hormones and the sodding instincts. And additionally, when Mummy worries, she coddles even more and she doesn’t leave you alone. If we get her involved, she’ll never leave us alone.”

 

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” John declared, getting up and, horrifically, reaching for his mobile. “I’m inviting Mummy and Father over for dinner. I’d like to see you try to stop me, but I’m fairly certain that, for once, I’ll be able to outrun you.”

 

“I can waddle very quickly,” Sherlock protested. It wasn’t like he was _that_ big.

 

… …

 

Sherlock was enormous.

 

“I can’t fit into any of my suits,” he complained. “Or any of my good shirts. Or any of my good trousers.”

 

“I tried to take you shopping,” John reminded him wearily. “You pitched a massive fit when you saw the male maternity section and stomped out of the store.”

 

“The jumpers were uglier than yours!” Sherlock protested. “What am I supposed to wear when Mummy gets here? Tell me John, since you’re the one who forced me into this position.”

 

“This position? You mean having to get out of your pajamas for the first time in three weeks?”

 

“They’re all that fit!” Sherlock whined. “I’d like to see you try carting around two new human beings and attempt to put on any decent clothing! Not that you can be bothered to wear decent clothing on a normal day.”

 

John just glared at Sherlock until the omega instinct cowered slightly.

 

Sherlock tipped his head in submission, showing his bond mark, and scowled. “I hate it when you do that.”

 

“It’s the only thing that shuts you up. Now put on one of my big jumpers if you have to, but please find yourself something that isn’t full of holes. I don’t want your parents to think that I’m neglecting you or anything.”

 

Sherlock huffed and did as he was told.

 

Sometimes he _really hated_ being an omega.

 

… …

 

And of course Silas just _adored_ his grandmother, the little traitor.

 

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Mummy said as soon as she entered the flat, accepting a thrilled Silas into her arms. “I can’t believe you kept this from me and your father.”

 

Father just placidly followed his wife, beaming at his younger son with pride for a moment and congratulating him on the twins.

 

“Was a bit of a shock to me,” Father admitted, grinning the easy smile of the contented. “But of course, you never do anything halfway.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said dryly. “Because this was intentional.”

 

“Was it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Ah, I see.”

 

“Don’t be rude to your father, Billy,” Mummy scolded.

 

Sherlock twitched at that horrible nickname, and resolved to murder John later when that stupid alpha burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

 

“It’s Sherlock,” he said through gritted teeth. “My name is Sherlock.”

 

“Whatever happened to Billy?” Mummy asked, sounding genuinely confused. As if they hadn’t had this conversation approximately thirty two times previous, not that Sherlock had been counting. “That’s what we called you when you were a baby.”

 

“Well, I prefer to go by Sherlock, now that I’m an adult,” he said, shooting John a glare.

 

“Have you thought about naming one of the new ones William?” Mummy asked, tickling Silas’s tummy. “It’s a lovely name, really. It’s a shame you refuse to use it.”

 

“It’s dull,” Sherlock protested. “A dreadfully common name.”

 

“We don’t know the genders,” John cut in, apparently having overcome his fit of insane laughter. “But we might put William on the list.”

 

“We will _not,_ ” Sherlock protested.

 

“It’s just so hard to tell until you see them,” John continued. “We nearly named Silas something else, but changed it as soon as he was born.”

 

Mummy bounced Silas up and down, who was still smiling like an idiot. “He really is a Silas, isn’t he?” she cooed. “What a gorgeous baby…”

 

Sherlock felt slightly mollified after that display. After all, Silas _was_ a gorgeous baby, and it was imperative that people acknowledged that on a regular basis.

 

But Sherlock didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “If you keep doing that, he’ll vomit on you.” Sherlock turned to John. “And if William goes on the list, then Hamish goes on the list.”

 

John scowled and nodded, admitting defeat. “I’m hoping for a girl in there somewhere,” John confided, taking Silas from Mummy and moving to set him up in his high chair. The awkward group followed him into the kitchen. “But who knows? We might end up with three boys.”

 

“They’ll be terrors when they’re a bit older,” Mummy warned him. “Sherlock and Mycroft got into all sorts of trouble. It was great fun, of course, but I do wish I’d had a daughter,” Mummy sighed, going a bit misty eyed (to Sherlock’s absolute disgust).

 

“Rosalyn,” Father interjected. “That’s what we would have named her. No luck, though.”

 

“We got lucky with our boys,” Mummy said fondly, patting Sherlock’s cheek, which he indulged solely because John was still glaring at him. “With both of us betas, we weren’t sure if we’d have any at all.”

 

“We’re hoping Silas presents beta,” John admitted, puttering around the kitchen preparing the meal. Sherlock would have helped, but his stomach was so big he couldn’t really reach things on the counters effectively.

 

“Why?” Mummy asked, looking slightly scandalized. “Don’t you want bunches of grandchildren?”

 

Sherlock felt a jolt of pure glee. Maybe she and John would get into an argument and John’s alpha instincts would make him kick them out. That would be _lovely_.

 

“Sherlock and I have found that it’s difficult for…” John glanced quickly at Sherlock and away again. “For strong personalities to make peace with their instincts. It leads to ignoring impulses, which leads to a lot of subconscious actions, which leads to bonding with someone you met earlier in the weekend.”

 

“But that was a lovely weekend,” Sherlock sighed. “We caught a serial killer. Accidentally courted. Upset Lestrade and shocked Donovan speechless. Fantastic.”

 

“Ah, yes, I finally got John to tell me that whole story,” Mummy said with a smile. “And I’m still furious that you didn’t invite us to the wedding.”

 

“It was just a formality,” Sherlock protested for the umpteenth time. He sat down at the kitchen table when he could no longer ignored the ache in his lower back. _God_ he hated pregnancy. “We were already mated. Only John’s sister was supposed to show up as witness. Mycroft just…appeared.”

 

“He does that,” John added, clicking a wooden spoon against a pot to shake off a few drops of pasta sauce, glaring at it suspiciously. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. John was following a new recipe, and he wasn’t confident about how it was going to turn out. Decent, Sherlock decided, but too much salt.

 

John served the food and Mummy started into an eleven minute long tirade about the different things they were going to have to do to the flat in order to accommodate two more people.

 

“And thank Christ you moved all of your mad experiments to the basement,” she finished. “Although you must be having problems getting up and down the stairs these days. Are you sure you don’t need me to stick around for the last trimester? You know I detest the city, but I want to do everything I can to help. I’d happily stay here if you needed me.”

 

“We’re fine,” Sherlock snapped. “We’ve managed so far. Contrary to your usual opinion, I’m not helpless.”

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Mummy sighed. “I don’t mean to put you on the defensive. I just worry about you. Do you remember when you were four and decided that you wanted to be a--”

 

“Pirate,” Father finished for her.

 

She laughed. “Oh, yes! A pirate! And you made a pirate ship out of an old wooden crate, Lord knows where you found that! But then you decided you needed a sail and you climbed up to get--”

 

“The curtains,” Father said fondly.

 

“—Yes, the curtains. You nearly broke your neck when you fell. I’ve never been so terrified in my life! Well, other than the time when you were nineteen and Mycroft sent you to that horrid clinic--”

 

“I think that’s quite enough reminiscing,” Sherlock interrupted, a bit icily.

 

“Anyways,” Mummy continued. “It’s my place to worry about you, just as much as it’s your place to worry about my beautiful grandson.”

 

Silas took this moment to look up from his bowl of mush to give her a beaming smile and a little noise of delight.

 

“Traitor,” Sherlock muttered, picking at his food despite the fact he was ravenous. He was having the oddest cravings for raw cabbage dipped in honey. _Normal_ food that _regular_ people ate just wasn’t cutting it.

 

“And really, you should think about buying a house,” Mummy continued. “This flat just won’t be big enough. They’ll all be teenagers at once, you realize. And they’re all going to need their own space.”

 

Sherlock flinched and felt an irrational wave of anger well up in him.

 

John obviously sensed something through the bond and tried to steer the conversation away. “We love it here,” he assured her quickly. “And we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, tell me more about what Sherlock was like as a baby. Silas was very easy going, but I think I need to know a little more about what I might be getting into here.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock breathed an enormous sigh of relief when John shut the door behind Mummy. Then John turned to Sherlock and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for an explanation.

 

Sherlock didn’t feel inclined to give him one. He tried to waddle away instead.

 

“Nope,” John protested, following Sherlock. “You’re going to have to tell me what pissed you off so badly.”

 

“Instincts,” was all that Sherlock said.

 

“Can’t be an excuse for everything, love. You were ready to bite Mummy’s head off.”

 

Sherlock made his way to the bedroom and carefully made himself comfortable on the bed. “It’s the truth. I’m nesting, John. This place is my den. She insulted the sanctity of my den, John. The _sanctity_.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Why do you think I won’t leave?” Sherlock fumed. “Why do you think I’ve kept myself cooped up in here with nothing but cold cases to solve and nappies to change? The last time I tried to leave the flat, I had an anxiety attack. It was _humiliating_.” Oh God, and speaking of humiliating, Sherlock felt like he was about to cry. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. My body is betraying me. It doesn’t belong to me anymore, and I want it back.”

 

John’s stern expression melted. “You’ve only got a few more months left Sherlock. You’re nearly there.”

 

“The last trimester is the worst,” Sherlock insisted. “And you remember what Dr. Fisher said. I need to take it easy or risk premature delivery. I can’t even pretend that I have the option of doing fun things.”

 

“You can do some things,” John argued.

 

“I can do dull things,” Sherlock corrected.

 

“Maybe you can ask Mycroft if there is anything you can consult on,” John suggested. “Just something low energy. No chasing criminals, just consulting from the flat.”

 

Sherlock made a face. “I don’t want to help Mycroft.”

 

“Well, you’re even right now, aren’t you? Wouldn’t it be nice if he owed you?”

 

“John, you’re talking to me like I’m a temperamental child in primary school.”

 

“To be fair,” John started, but Sherlock didn’t let him get to the end of the sentence, his mind already racing through possibilities.

 

“I _will_ text Mycroft,” Sherlock decided. “And I’ll prove that even pregnant I am far more capable than he ever is.”

 

… …

 

Mycroft _did_ have a job for Sherlock. One that he was fairly certain wouldn’t be dangerous. Not to Sherlock, at least. He _would_ have to leave the flat, though, which was a source of severe anxiety, but Sherlock was fairly certain he would be able to cope.   

 

John was less comfortable with the idea, but Sherlock was just supposed to have a civil conversation with some woman that put Mycroft in a bind.

 

Mycroft even said that it wouldn’t be a problem to take Silas with them.

 

These were peaceful negotiations.

 

It took some convincing to get Sherlock to leave his den, but once he got a lungful of city air, he knew that this little job was going to be good for him.

 

… …

 

Sherlock was going to murder Mycroft.

 

Irene Adler was most certainly _not_ interested in peaceful negotiations. She was interested in mind games and manipulations and wearing as few articles of clothing as possible.

 

It didn’t help that she was an omega and, therefore, left John a gibbering, useless mess clutching a baby helplessly to his chest.

 

“Is this really necessary?” Sherlock snapped the second she entered the room.

 

“What, am I distracting you?” Irene purred, looking at Sherlock with a rather disturbing level of desire in her eyes.

 

“No,” Sherlock said truthfully. “But my husband can’t think straight.”

 

“I don’t really need to think anyway,” John said with the mournful air of a martyr. “I’m not exactly the brains of the family.”

 

“No,” Silas agreed solemnly. “No Dada.”

 

“I have to say,” Irene said, curling up in a chair. “I’m surprised at you, Mr. Holmes. I always thought we would meet, but under much different circumstances. I was hoping we would be able to speak over dinner.”

 

“Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock corrected in reflex. “And I honestly can say that I never expected to meet you.”

 

Irene pouted. “That’s a shame. I’ve been a fan of your work for a long time. I was hoping it was mutual.” She leaned in closer. “I like detective stories. And detectives.”

 

John turned to Sherlock and frowned. “She’s knows that I’m here, right?”

 

“You know that I’m very pregnant, right?” Sherlock asked over John. He gestured to the ridiculous mass that was his stomach. “You know that I am actually _super_ pregnant, correct?”

 

“Oh, I’ve heard about the twins,” Irene said, like she was confiding her deepest secrets. “You’d be surprised at how quickly word gets around, especially in the…less than legal areas of business. And I get around a fair bit.”

 

“I’d say,” John muttered, rather uncharitably, the woman was a professional after all.

 

Irene continued to ignore John like doing so was her purpose in life. “Quite a few criminals are getting restless. They know that they great Sherlock Holmes is vulnerable. And they don’t appreciate it when he pokes his nose into their business.”

 

“When a person’s business is killing people, it deserves to be interrupted,” Sherlock pointed out dryly. “And I’m hardly vulnerable. I have an overprotective, trigger-happy alpha husband that doesn’t let me go anywhere alone.”

 

“Hi,” John said, waving cheerfully.

 

“And everything he does in my defense is completely legal,” Sherlock continued. “Article Sixteen of the Alpha-Omega Protections Act. An alpha’s actions in defense of his mate and/or pups is within the bounds of the law. So in fact, legally I’m safer than I’ve ever been.”

 

“Oh yes,” Irene said scornfully. “As if criminals have ever given any consideration to what the law says.”

 

Sherlock paused. “Good point.”

 

“Thank you. I try.”

 

“So apparently you have a phone that Mycroft wants?” John interrupted. “And also, could you put on some clothes?”

 

Irene waved him aside and focused back on Sherlock.

 

“What must it be like?” Irene asked him softly. “To have a mind that powerful, to see so much more than everyone else around you, and be trapped in a body cursed with instincts and weakness, weighed down with pups as your alpha impregnates you again and again and again?”

 

John looked panicked, as though he had never considered that before. He appeared to be having some sort of internal crisis, so Sherlock decided to rescue him.

 

“You seem to be under the impression that John owns me,” Sherlock began. “Or that he forces me to do anything I don’t want to. I can assure you that’s not the case.”   


“It’s the other way around, really,” John admitted as Silas smacked him repeatedly in the face.

 

“You also seem to be under the impression that I don’t desire this life,” Sherlock said, placing a hand Silas’s curls and smiling fondly at the son. “I can assure you of the opposite there as well. You won’t be able to use omega camaraderie to manipulate me. We have business to do, Irene. You can’t distract me from that.”

 

Sherlock shed his maternity coat and tossed it to the other omega. “I’ve known your intentions since the moment you stepped into the room. The nudity was for both of us. You wanted me to feel self-conscious. I’m just over six months pregnant with twins, my figure isn’t exactly what it used to be. Omega instinct is based on physical beauty, you wanted me to acknowledge you as superior and submit, standing by while you distracted my alpha, which was a bit more straightforward. Blind the alpha with tits and your unbonded status, and suddenly he’s groveling at your feet.

 

“If I were to see my alpha, God forbid, courting another omega, it would create instant hostility between the two of us, and we’d be a divided front. I would fight him in everything on principle, or else be throwing myself as him in order to get back to his good graces. When that didn’t work, because you obviously don’t know John very well, you started the buddy-buddy ‘Oh look, we’re both omegas fighting the restraints of our gender.’ Which would have worked on me two years ago, but I must say that I’ve rather embraced the whole maternal side of this mess. I mean, have you ever smelled a baby’s head? It’s lovely.

 

“All of this was, of course, for you to take control of the situation the second you entered the room. Once we started the negotiations, you wanted us to be addled, instinct driven idiots who were willing to bow down to anything you said. However,” Sherlock pointed to John. “John is an extremely low instinct alpha. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise. The only instincts of his that are at normal levels, and are in fact on the very high end of normal, are his pack loyalty instincts and his protective instincts. So he was a lost cause before you even started. And as for you making me insecure,” Sherlock just leaned back. “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”

 

“Sherlock thinks very highly of himself,” John agreed dryly. “It takes quite a bit to damage his ego.”

 

Irene scowled and put on the maternity coat.

 

“Fine,” she snapped. “Let’s do this the hard way.”

 

“Mycroft wants the entire phone,” Sherlock started. “His instructions were that I get it back at any cost. The point of the negotiations was to figure out the cost. However, I’ll cut you a deal.” Sherlock leaned in as far as his huge stomach would let him. “Delete the naughty pictures that have Mycroft in a tizzy and we’ll let you keep everything else.” Sherlock smirked. “I understand that you refer to that phone as your protection. You will not part with it for any price.”

 

“I won’t delete the pictures either,” Irene agreed. “You won’t put a price on that, either. I want a little bit of power over Mycroft Holmes, should it ever come in handy. If I delete these, I don’t have anything.”

 

“How about a trade?” Sherlock suggested. John shifted in his seat, evidently not sure how to react with Sherlock went off script.

 

“I’m listening,” Irene’s eyes were bright with interest, and not a little of the lust returned to them.

 

“I’ll give you power over me,” Sherlock suggested. “And power over me is power over Mycroft.”

 

“What? No. No! Sherlock!” John was sputtering and holding Silas closer, as though he could shelter their son from this recklessness.

 

“John, this is the most fun I’ve had in weeks, stop fussing.” Sherlock looked back to Irene. “So? What do you say?”

 

Irene considered the offer. “Real power,” she said at last. “Not a stupid little secret. I want to be able to bring you to your knees, if I have to.”

 

“Fair enough,” Sherlock allowed. “Pass me the phone. I’ll delete the pictures and make a note of my biggest weakness.”

 

“Sherlock! What are you doing?!”

 

“Deal,” Irene said, getting up and going to a mirror. She lifted it off the wall and entered a combination into a hidden keypad. She lifted the phone out of the concealed safe and tapped a few buttons. Instead of handing the phone over to Sherlock, she moved where he could see what she was doing on the phone.

 

“I’m not going to let you mess about with my phone,” she explained. “I’ll let you watch me delete them instead.”

 

“Of course you have other copies,” Sherlock pointed out.

 

“Oh, of course,” Irene agreed. “But let me guess, brother dearest just wanted them off this phone?”

 

“Bingo,” Sherlock agreed.

 

“Sherlock, what’s the point of making the deal if she still has the pictures?” John hissed, freaking out on the other side of the sofa. “This was _not_ the plan.” 

 

“Finished,” Irene announced, opening up a new note. “Type it here.”

 

Sherlock tapped it in and saved the note. As he handed it back to Irene, he said, “It may not seem like much, and it’s not exactly a secret, but I can assure you that this is the one thing that would be needed to get me to do anything you please.”

 

Irene read the note and frowned. “I could have guessed this. In like, three guesses. Or one guess. This would have been my first guess.”

 

“But this is confirmation,” Sherlock pointed out. “There’s nothing else that could sway me. Not blackmail or bribery. Just that.”

 

Irene smirked. “I have to agree with your husband,” she said, acknowledging John directly for the first time. “Why did you just do that? I have a dozen copies of those pictures.”

 

“Because you’re not our enemy,” Sherlock said decisively. “And it’s never a good idea to keep your weakness a secret. People think that they won’t have to protect it if no one knows about it. I have no desire to grow complacent in that manner. I would rather everyone know, but also know that it’s useless because I would never leave them unprotected.”

 

“I could kill you all now,” Irene pointed out.

 

“But would you?” Sherlock asked. “That’s really the question. No, Irene. I trust you not to use that yet because there will be a time when you need me. And there may be a time when I need you.” Sherlock smirked. “Call that a gesture of friendship. I’d much rather have you as an ally than an enemy.”

 

Irene looked pleased with the turn of events. “Why, Sherlock. What would Mycroft say?”

 

“To be careful, most likely. He thinks that you’re a snake in the grass, just waiting for a chance to strike.”

 

“And what do you think?”

 

“I think you’re a hornet,” Sherlock said promptly. “You can only strike once. You wouldn’t waste your one move. As soon as you act on a piece of information on that phone, everyone else you’re blackmailing will know that no matter what they do, their secrets aren’t really safe. People will get desperate and when people get desperate, they get very stupid and very dangerous. You can act once, Miss Adler. And when you do, it has to be worth every single risk.”

 

“How do you know that you aren’t worth the risk?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

 

“I don’t,” Sherlock said honestly. “But I don’t _think_ that I am. Not yet, anyway. But until then, I say we enjoy our uneasy alliance. You know exactly how to hurt me, and I know that you won’t hurt me unless you’re willing for it to be the last thing you ever do. I sincerely hope that you come to me with your problems before it gets to that point. After all,” Sherlock said, affecting a mocking tone. “We omegas have got to stick together.”

 

Irene gave him a look of reluctant admiration. “I have a feeling that this will be the start of a beautiful friendship, Mr. Watson-Holmes.”

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, heaving himself up to his feet. “Have the coat dropped off at my home. I’m sure you know the address, I put it on the website. Are you ready to leave, John?”

 

John got to his feet with a huff. “You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

 

“Don’t I always?” Sherlock gave Irene a lazy wave. “Laters.”

 

He walked out of the room, John following closely behind, feeling very smug and satisfied with life as a whole.

 

“I _like_ her,” Sherlock declared, hailing a cab. “Bit of a crazy bitch, admittedly, but that was fun.”

 

“What the hell did I just witness, Sherlock?!” John finally exploded. Silas started fussing, and John calmed down in order to soothe him.

 

“I thought I explained myself well enough in there,” Sherlock said as a cab finally slowed down for them. “She can’t do anything to hurt us. And so long as we’re allies, she can help protect my weakness.”

 

“And what is this fabled weakness of yours, exactly?” John asked scathingly as they got into the cab.

 

Sherlock gave John a disappointed look. “Really, John. I would have thought you would know it off the top of your head.”

 

“A good mystery? Boredom?”

 

“My family,” Sherlock said shortly. “My family is the one thing I would give up everything for. I would do anything to keep you safe. It’s obvious, yes, but it’s true.”

 

John was still scowling.

 

“Please,” Sherlock sighed. “You and the pups are who Irene would target anyway, if she wanted something from us. But she won’t, because we’re allies now. See? Irene is extremely powerful, more than she realizes, I think. Definitely more than Mycroft realizes. As our friend, we’ve set up a buffer between us and the rest of the world’s criminals.”

 

“So if someone is out to get us…”

 

“Irene will tell us,” Sherlock finished. “She dangled that right in front of us when she told us word was getting around about the twins. I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on it. She’s was aiming for an alliance the second she realized she wasn’t going to beat us. Which was about three seconds after she walked into the room. She’s a clever woman. I’ve given her everything she wanted today, and she knows that I was aware of exactly what I was doing. Isn’t this how you make friends?”

 

“No,” John said heavily. “No it isn’t.”

 

“Pity. This way is much more fun.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DingosAteMyBaby left a litany of suggestions. This chapter includes: Sherlock leaving empty food containers in the fridge out of shame, Sherlock’s fashion sense applied to baby clothes Sherlock, Silas giggling while perched on Sherlock’s tummy, and Sherlock using his pregnant stomach as a shelf.
> 
> Also, this chapter is a lot shorter than normal. I've had a crazy week and it was the best I could do. Sorry! 
> 
> And, since I hate myself, I've set up a Part Three in this chapter. 
> 
> Apparently, readers, there will be a part three. I just can't stop writing this AU for the life of me. 
> 
> Additionally, I'm still taking suggestions. If you have any, you can leave them in the comments or send me a message via Tumblr.

Evidently, Sherlock was trying to give John a heart attack before the babies were even born.

 

AND THERE WOULD BE WORDS WITH MYCROFT.

 

Very firmly uttered words with poorly veiled threats of physical violence. Possibly with a variety of weapons and/or certain skills learned in a combat situation.

 

Not that John was planning that or anything.

 

He was perfectly calm. There was absolutely nothing upsetting him. At all.

 

Except for the fact that his brother-in-law sent him to a crazy woman’s house. A crazy woman who is, apparently, now best friends with his husband.

 

And the fact that Silas was endlessly fussy because he picked up a cold somewhere in the city and was coughing the tiniest, most pathetic, utterly terrifying and somehow still adorable little cough ever coughed. Ever.

 

AND the fact that Sherlock kept finishing random items of food and putting the empty cartons and jars back into the fridge.

 

“Sherlock!” John called, brandishing an empty jar of jam. “Why? Just why?”

 

Sherlock looked at the jar with something approaching shame. “I ate it.”

 

“I gathered that,” John sighed. “Why did you put it back in the fridge?”

 

“I ate it with a spoon,” Sherlock admitted. “At three in the morning. I wasn’t in the best frame of mind.”

 

John opened his mouth to say something scathing about Sherlock’s usual frame of mind, thought better of it, and marched back into the kitchen.

 

“We should take Silas to the doctor!” Sherlock called from the other room. “That cough doesn’t sound good.”

 

“I am a doctor!” John reminded him. “I listened to his lungs. He’s fine.”

 

“I want a second opinion.”

 

“Is my opinion not good enough?”

 

“Your opinion is always suspect. You put Silas in brown socks and blue trousers. Your opinion and good sense are now forever dead to me.”

 

“We’ll have to plan a funeral, then.”

  
“John! I’m being serious!”

 

“So am I. I was rather fond of having my own opinion. Those were good days and I would like to have the chance to mourn them properly.”

 

“John, our child is sick.”

  
“He has a cold, Sherlock. If he gets a fever, we’ll deal with it then. Just keep him hydrated.”

 

Sherlock made a scoffing sound. John finally emerged from the kitchen, carrying two sandwiches with him. He gave one to Sherlock and settled down with his own.

 

He nodded to the baby monitor. “He’s trying to sleep right now. If he gets worse, we’ll be able to hear it.”

 

Sherlock pouted but was unable to resist the pull of food, so he started eating his sandwich in silence.

 

“You could at least match his trousers with the proper shirt,” Sherlock finally said after a moment of glorious quiet. “I made an index for a reason.”

 

“Your index is too bloody complicated to read without a PhD in quantum physics. I grab a shirt, I grab some trousers, I wrestle that shockingly slippery child into them, and I call it a day.”

 

Sherlock looked utterly disgusted. “You make me sad about life in general.”

 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” John said insincerely, although he was mentally planning a real apology in case Sherlock started crying.

 

You could never be too sure these days.

 

… …

 

Silas got better quickly, to John’s immense relief. He had been more nervous than he let on to Sherlock, but he figured that _one_ of them had to be calm and level headed in this situation, and John was not cruel enough to try and force that role on Sherlock. The poor bastard was buying fuzzy blankets in bulk off the internet.

 

On a Saturday two weeks after the Irene Adler incident, John dressed Silas according to the index and set him down on Sherlock’s stomach.

  
It took some adjustment, since Sherlock was no longer built for holding an infant, but Silas eventually perched, greeting the occasional kick from his siblings with breathless laughter and wide eyed wonder.

 

“He’s dressed nicely,” Sherlock observed. His eyes narrowed. “Why is he dressed nicely?”

 

Sherlock looked up at John and frowned. “ _You’re_ dressed nicely. You’re never dressed nicely.”

 

“Get up and get dressed, love,” John ordered, presenting him with a box he had been keeping hidden in 221C for the past few days. “I asked for Mycroft’s help in getting this. It should fit.”

 

“What’s going on? Where are we going?” Sherlock’s eyes widened when he understood. “NO.”

 

“You can’t possibly know what’s happening,” John insisted, although he had no doubts that his husband had already figured it out. “Put on the suit and get ready to leave. You have a half an hour.”

 

“It’s noon on a Saturday in spring, John,” Sherlock protested, setting Silas on the ground and snatching the box rather violently. “It’s noon on a Saturday in spring seven months into this hell of reproduction. It isn’t difficult to figure out what’s about to happen.”

 

“Just take a shower and put the damn clothes on,” John said firmly. “You haven’t left the house in two weeks. _And_ Mrs. Hudson,Molly, and Mummy have been planning this behind our backs for the past week. _At least_. You don’t want to disappoint our future baby sitters, do you? No. I didn’t think so. So get dressed or risk alienating yourself from everyone who will help us with the next year of our lives, alright?”

 

Sherlock looked prepared to throw an enormous fit out of pride, but thankfully the idea of trying to take care of three screaming children unaided was enough to spur him into the appropriate course of action.

 

He huffed a bit but went to get dressed.

 

John sighed in relief. That man made going to a baby shower seem like going to prison.

 

… …

 

At John’s request, they booked the back area of the same restaurant where he and had Sherlock met. The significance was not lost on his mate. Sherlock just scowled at him, mumbled something about sentiment being the downfall of humanity, but looked rather pleased with the decision over all.

 

“The food here isn’t very good,” Sherlock commented.

 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” John replied honestly. “I can’t say I paid much attention to anything that night. Except for the gorgeous man who rescued me from a few hours of awkward small talk.”

 

As anticipated, Sherlock blushed at the comment and made no further remarks about the restaurant as they walked inside.

 

“Look surprised,” John added. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

 

“SURPRISE!” yelled out everyone in the world who didn’t hate Sherlock, and some who did.

 

“Oh my,” Sherlock said flatly. “I am surprised.”

 

“You’re not fun,” Molly scolded, making reaching, grabbing hands for Silas. “And how is my precious baby doing?”

 

“Still not yours,” Sherlock pointed out. He was ignored.

 

“He’s doing well, he got over his cold and is right as rain now,” John said, passing Silas over.

 

He took Sherlock by the arm and made all the appropriate greetings. He shook Greg’s hand and politely greeted Mrs. Lestrade, who hated both Sherlock and John with an alarming level of passive-aggressive intensity.

 

Mrs. Hudson was trying to force feed Sherlock all manners of things, and Sherlock wasn’t complaining for ones of the few times in his life. They lingered here slightly.

 

Then came Mike Stamford and his wife, who were pleasant to both of them. John and Sherlock discovered they had a mutual acquaintance in Mike shortly after they bonded, which ended up making Mike one of their closer friends.

 

Then there was Harry and Clara, lurking near the edges. Harry was there reluctantly, and was possessively guarding Clara from anyone who might pay a little bit too much attention to the omega. John kept the smile plastered to his face, though, and was extremely thankful that there was only a minimal amount of alcohol at the baby shower.

 

For some reason Sally Donovan was there. John could neither remember inviting her nor asking someone else to bring her along, but he tried to be polite all the same.

 

Sherlock put a stop to that.

 

“She’s only here to see it for herself,” Sherlock informed everyone in earshot. “After nearly two years she still can’t believe that I haven’t murdered you in your sleep. Or that I am even capable of conceiving and caring for children of my own.”

 

“You haven’t exactly given me much reason to,” she snapped. But she frowned after a second, took a gulp of wine, and admitted, “You’re a good father to Silas. And, God help me for thinking this, you’ll be a good father to the twins. Don’t fuck it up, Holmes.”

 

“Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock corrected her automatically, although he looked slightly shocked by the praise.

 

“Thank you,” John said, equally shocked. “That…means a lot?”

 

“And now I’m just here for the cake,” Sally said, walking away to bother Greg.

 

“What on Earth…” John trailed off, reordering his perception on reality. “Right, let’s keep going.”

 

Father and Mummy were patiently waiting off to the side, beaming with excitement and pride and joy and all the good things people should expect from their parents during their baby shower. John greeted them enthusiastically, a kiss on the cheek for Mummy and a firm but manly hug for Father, while Sherlock said hello with the same lukewarm affection he used for everyone he cared about, excluding John, Silas, and Mrs. Hudson.

 

 “It’s good to see you so happy,” Mummy gushed, patting her son’s cheek and gazing up at him with adoration. Sherlock flinched at the contact. “I’m so proud of you. And I’m so thrilled that you’re letting us be a part of it.”

 

The ‘this time’ went unspoken, but John still heard it. Sherlock did too, if the ashamed look on his face meant anything.

 

“Well,” Sherlock said gruffly. “We’re probably going to need a lot of help the first few months.”

 

John beamed at his husband, knowing that the admission nearly killed him. He was so proud. So goddamn proud of everyone and everything and the world was a fucking beautiful place and nothing could ever go wrong.

 

He was even feeling good about saying hello to Mycroft when a cool voice completely shattered the illusion of joy.

 

… …

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Irene announced. “Traffic, you know how it is. I had a job across town.”

 

Sherlock looked far too pleased to see her. Mycroft looked like he wanted to shoot her in the head. Everyone else just looked extremely confused.

 

“Irene,” Sherlock said with a small smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

“And yet I expected to see you,” she said evenly. “Strange that I knew exactly where you be. It’s almost as if any unsavory person keeping an ear open for news about Sherlock Holmes would know that he would be here.”

 

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft greeted coldly. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get through my perimeter?”

 

Irene looked like she felt bad for Mycroft. “Oh, silly little Ice Man, wrapped up in his delusions of security. You seem to be living under the extremely incorrect impression that your operatives are spotless. Please, one dirty secret about just one person and I can get through any obstacles you put in my path. But don’t worry, I’m not here to be the bad guy. Yet. I’m here to give my friend a gift and to eat some cake.”

 

“Who is that?” Molly asked, Silas perched on her hip. “She knows Sherlock?”   
  
“New friend,” John explained, keeping his hand over the reassuring weight on the handgun tucked into his waistband.

 

“Friend?” Molly sounded incredulous.

 

“Friend,” John confirmed. “They text regularly and everything.”

 

She was appropriately flabbergasted.

 

“I take it that someone—unsavory, did you say?—is keeping tabs on me,” Sherlock continued, as though there was nothing strange going on at all.

 

His casual tone released some of the tension and small talk picked back up in their little group of people.

 

“That doesn’t sound very good,” Mummy pointed out. Father nodded in agreement.

  
“Brother dear,” Mycroft said, sounding very put upon. “ _Everyone_ unsavory is _always_ keeping tabs on you. That is why I have repeatedly advised against this little,” Mycroft made a face, “family of yours. But more importantly, you _made friends_ with Irene Adler? Suddenly, John’s angry voice mail makes so much more sense.”

 

“You people keep acting like I’m a villain,” Irene complained. “Have I done anything wrong?”

 

“You _are_ a criminal,” Sherlock cheerfully pointed out.

 

“True,” she agreed. “But who isn’t a criminal, at some point in their lives?”

 

“Perhaps a baby shower isn’t the best place for this?” John suggested, taking Silas from Molly and holding him protectively to his chest. Silas fussed at the switch and immediately started gnawing on John’s shoulder.

 

“Nonsense,” Irene declared. She dug through her purse until she came out with a little white box. “I have a gift and everything.”

 

… …

 

Somehow the baby shower continued on. The lunch was eaten without any big problems and the transition to present opening was surprisingly smooth.

 

Sherlock was utterly useless about opening the presents, of course, but that was to be expected. John went through most of the over-the-top motions, lavishing the gift givers with thanks and praise for their good (?) taste.

 

The Stamfords offered a lot of toys with vaguely medical themes. Molly handed over a slightly lopsided but still very pretty hand knit blanket. Greg just bypassed the whole baby theme and proved what a good friend he was by handing Sherlock a whole box of cold cases, enough to keep him occupied while the twins kept him at home. Sally gave them a gift card and a stuffed bear with a little police hat. Mummy and Father gave Sherlock a very old and kind of horrible looking rocking horse that went right over John’s head but seemed to hold some sort of significance to Sherlock. Harry and Clara gave them a triple stroller that would hold Silas and the twins. It was a horrible and awkward monstrosity of a thing, but John couldn’t deny that they would probably end up using it. Mrs. Hudson went the traditional route and gave them a diaper bag filled with all sorts of practicalities, like bottles and diapers and onesies and more diapers. Mycroft gave Sherlock an envelope with strict instructions not to open it until they were in a secure location. Irene gave Sherlock the white box.

 

This was the only gift that Sherlock didn’t immediately pass over to John. He opened it himself, wordlessly examined the contents and shut it again.

 

“Thank you, Irene,” Sherlock said, his voice rough with sincerity. He put the box in his pocket and looked at the expectant group around him. “I think we have cake now, yes?”

 

They all moved slightly awkwardly to the cake, which John cut and served. Sherlock perched his plate on his stomach, somehow finding a perfect balance. Silas giggled and immediately rubbed the tiny amount of cake he was permitted to eat over everything and everyone.

 

Although Mrs. Lestrade and Mrs. Stamford looked completely befuddled by the whole event, John had to say that the baby shower actually went rather well.

 

… …

 

“What did she get you?” John asked on their way home. People had badgered Sherlock with that question for the past hour, but John hadn’t said a word until they were in relative privacy.   


To answer, Sherlock took the box out of his pocket. Silas made an immediate grab for it that John diverted, to the baby’s distress.

 

John took it instead and opened it up.

 

“It’s a mobile phone,” John stated, not really understanding.

 

“No,” Sherlock corrected, taking the box back. “It’s protection.”

 

“Is that…is that her phone?”

 

“No,” Sherlock repeated. “It’s my own.”

 

“She got you your own blackmail phone?”

 

Sherlock smiled. “She got me dirt on a lot of people who would otherwise be a danger to us. Now, they’re harmless. I think that something might be coming, John. I don’t know what, or who, or…anything really. I hate that feeling. I hate ‘not knowing.’ But Irene knows something, and she wants me to know she knows. That’s why she showed up today. She was sending a message. Will you allow me to be dramatic for a moment?”

 

“I always allow you to be dramatic.”

 

“Fair point. There’s a battle brewing, John. A decisive battle in this urban war we fight. Irene has chosen her side. For good or bad, she’s thrown her lot in with us. That’s a very significant step, John. It lets our enemies know that we are preparing. We are gathering our forces and building our arsenals and we will not be defeated easily. They will strike first, whoever they are. I don’t know when that will happen, but I believe it is going to be a lot sooner than we would hope.”

 

John let a beat of silence pass.

  
“You were right, that was very dramatic.”

 

“I said as much.”   
  
“That was definitely permission-worthy drama, so good on you for that.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to update this story for a few weeks (probably two, no more than three) because I'm starting my freshman year of college and will be too busy with orientation and the start of classes to write. I'll let people know via tumblr when I'll be back. 
> 
> P.S. Please leave me a comment suggesting baby names for one boy and one girl. I sincerely have no idea what to name them.

_Once the omega has stocked up on nourishment and comforts, he or she will create a sort of nest for themselves in their den and will rarely emerge until their pup is born._

… …

 

Sherlock was on bed rest and it was utterly _hateful._

 

John moved one of the arm chairs into the kitchen just so that Sherlock could participate in Silas’s first birthday party.

 

Due to the bed rest and the fact that Sherlock was not supposed to be too ‘stressed’ or ‘excited’ at this point in his pregnancy, John invited the absolute minimum to Silas’s birthday. And apparently that meant everyone who would mail them a dead fish if they were refused an invite.

 

Mrs. Hudson came by default because they wouldn’t have been able to hide it from her if they wanted to. Not that they did.

 

Molly came because she was Silas’s godmother and was, apparently, supposed to be part of such things like birthdays and important milestones.

 

Lestrade was there because he was the godfather and was absurdly fond of Silas, although he pretended not to be.

 

Mummy and Father sent their regrets. (THANK GOD FOR SMALL MERCIES.)

 

Mycroft was not invited and showed up anyway.

 

Sherlock was eight and a half months pregnant and everyone was staring at him nervously, like he was about to spontaneously combust and then somehow magically present them with infants.

 

Really, there would be some sort of indication that he was about to give birth.

 

Such as going into labor first.

 

There was a Cesarean section tentatively scheduled in two weeks, but Sherlock was confident that he would give birth on his own sometime before then. Omegas tended to know such things, and for once Sherlock was not inclined to shut the stupid little voice of instinct up.

 

… …

 

Silas got cake all over himself.

 

Everyone who attended the birthday celebration lingered far longer than they were really welcome, to be honest. Even after John practically carried Sherlock back to bed, Sherlock still heard conversation and laughter coming from the sitting room.

 

Silas’s delighted laughter didn’t go unnoticed.

 

Sherlock smiled and listened to that laugh, strangely okay with the idea that his son was having fun without him.

 

So long as he was having fun.

 

So long as he was surrounded by people who adored him. And he knew that he was adored.

 

So long as that child didn’t feel different or unworthy for a single second.

 

So long as all of that was happening, Sherlock didn’t really mind being left out.

 

 

… …

 

John checked his mobile phone the next morning. Sherlock watched enviously as he puttered about the room, cleaning up while he checked his messages.

 

He set down the phone and began rearranging the sheets on the bed to create a sort of nest around Sherlock. He had picked this up during the last pregnancy, but seemed to actually understand the necessity of it now that Sherlock was stuck in the bed at all hours of the day.

 

“Greg says that there’s been another serial drowning.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I know, it’s been months since that last one,” John said absentmindedly, as though he had not just delivered life altering information. “I wonder if they have enough to go on now.”

 

“John!” Sherlock tossed off the blankets and tried to pull himself to his feet. “John! I have to go to the crime scene!”

 

“Sherlock!” John pushed him back down to the mattress. “Sherlock, don’t you dare.”   
  
“But John!”

 

“Remember when you promised not to put the babies in danger? Well, yeah. It’s time to keep that promise right now.”

 

“But John, I’ve been thinking about this case for months! You _have_ to let me see the crime scene!”

 

John inhaled a deep breath through his nose, pressed his lips tightly together, and shook his head no.

 

“We’ll use Skype!” Sherlock suggested desperately. “You can take the laptop around the crime scene! Please John! I _have_ to know.”

 

John crossed his arms over his chest, prepared to argue further, when his mobile pinged again. John grabbed it and read with a frown. He paused for a moment and grinned.

 

“What does it say?” Sherlock asked.

 

John just tapped out a reply, smiling.

 

“John!”

 

The mobile buzzed and John tapped the screen. “Hello, Greg,” he said cheerfully into his phone.

 

There was a slight pause and a shaky, “Hello, John. Is the madman in the room?”

 

John handed the phone to Sherlock. “Greg suggested FaceTime,” John explained. “He’ll show you the scene. Be nice to him. He’ll hang up on you as soon as you deserve it.”

 

“I’ll be good,” Sherlock swore, clutching the phone and peering at the screen. Lestrade looked resigned back at him. “Hello.”

 

John left the room to attend to Silas, who was babbling on the baby monitor, as Lestrade sighed and said, “Not a word, Sherlock. I’ll give you a sweep of the scene, then I’ll give you the chance to see something specific, if you want to. Then you can ask questions about other things we’ve found. But first, the victim’s name was Shelby Morton. She’s a wealthy widow who was investigated after her husband suddenly died when they were on holiday. Apparently he ‘washed overboard during a storm’ while on a cruise.”

 

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered. “She definitely killed him.”

 

“We think so too,” Lestrade said grimly. “But it was just one of those things our guys couldn’t prove.”

 

“Where was I during this?”

 

“Procreating,” Lestrade answered, making a face at the thought. “You were in heat. I didn’t ask questions. Open and shut while you were otherwise occupied.”

 

“Idiots.”

 

“Whatever. Sherlock, I’m going to send you some pictures of the victim. Look them over and call me back.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock said, ending the video chat. He waited a minute for his phone to receive the texts. He opened up the photos and studied them the best he could. Lestrade wasn’t exactly a renowned photographer.

 

There was an immediate discrepancy from the other victims. Harsh indentations surrounded the victim’s nose and mouth. Pressure marks? Suction marks?

 

Sherlock looked closer. Pressure marks. The killer had held the mask down much tighter for this victim than he had with the others. Now, that could be indicative of anger, of a more personal vendetta, but it also mean that the killer wasn’t trying to be sneaky or subtle anymore. Which would imply that the killer was aware that the police (or Sherlock, really) had figured out his roundabout method of execution.

 

That was very interesting.

 

Sherlock called Lestrade back.

 

“That didn’t take long.”   
  
“There was only one thing of note. You are an exceptionally terrible photographer, Lestrade.”

 

“Do you want to see the crime scene or not?”

 

“I would like to see the crime scene.”

 

“Thought so,” Lestrade said a bit smugly. “Now, don’t talk. I’m just going to show you the layout.”

 

Sherlock waited, watching the screen and listening to John give Silas his breakfast in the kitchen. It was very strange, Sherlock reflected, how much life can change. A little over two years ago, Sherlock created a fake profile on a dating sight. A little over two years ago, John’s sister forced him to go to a single’s mixer. A little over two years ago, Sherlock fell in love.

 

He never would have predicted it. Not once did he ever think that this was the life he was going to have for himself. Whenever he tried to imagine his future, it was either more of the same or a startling emptiness. Honestly, he didn’t expect to survive until forty. And now…

 

He hadn’t even fought it. Well, other than the halfhearted denial of that first day with John. He had run right into a completely different life, a different existence, a different role.

 

His musings were interrupted by Lestrade.

 

“Alright, Sherlock. What do you need to see again?”

 

“Sitting room rug,” Sherlock said immediately. “Are there any impressions in the fibers?”

 

Lestrade scanned the area. “No.”

 

“He’s moved somewhere else, then,” Sherlock sighed. “Are there any scuff marks on the floors? There should be something from where he weighed down the sheeting.”

 

A few minutes passed as Lestrade covered every inch of the flat’s floors. “No, there’s nothing there, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock paused. “Interesting.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, waving it off. “Just a thought. It’s an enormous conclusion to jump to right now. I need more data. Lestrade, all of the other widows, did you look into the deaths of the husbands?”

 

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, slightly distracted by something happening off screen. God, Sherlock wished he could be there. “Each one was investigated.”

 

More pieces were falling into place. “And you didn’t think to mention that five months ago?”

 

“They went back to using their maiden names,” Lestrade defended himself. “Nothing came up in the system with those names. No one made the connection before you.”

 

“Idiots,” Sherlock seethed briefly. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Lestrade, I have a theory, but it’s a bit of a stretch.”   
  
Lestrade paused. “You never admit that your theories are ridiculous.”

 

“Well, I’m not there, am I? I don’t have as much data as I usually require, and I have to make some deductive leaps without as much evidence as usual.”

 

“Fine, let’s hear it.”

 

“No, you have to leave.”   
  
“What?”

 

“You have to leave the room. Get away from the other officers. This is confidential.”

 

Lestrade shot an amused look to anyone in earshot. “Alright, I’ll step outside.”

 

Sherlock waited until Lestrade was alone. “No one can hear this?” he confirmed.

 

“I’m by myself. Sherlock, what’s going on?”   


“I think that a police officer is committing these murders.”

 

Lestrade paused before rolling his eyes. “And what gives you that idea.”

 

“Several things,” Sherlock said, allowing himself a small smile. “Number one, the method in which these murders were carried out.”    
  
“The jerry-rigged drowning masks?”  


“Yes, as you know, Lestrade, bizarre MO’s confuse the Yard.  You lot get caught up in psychology and pathology and spend more time trying to figure out _how_ people were killed, instead of _who_ was killing them. I have no doubt that if the victims simply had cyanide slipped into their tea, you would have made the connection between the widows and the nature of their husbands death before I even stepped in. This ‘dry land drowning’ unsettled your team enough that it threw them off their, admittedly inadequate under normal circumstances, game.”

 

“Sherlock…” Lestrade said in a warning voice.

 

“I believe this was intentional, Lestrade. That someone who knows Scotland Yard and how it worked decided to manipulate his fellow officers.”   
  
“You’re right, Sherlock. That _is_ a stretch.”

 

“Second, the deaths of the husbands. All suspicious. Every single one was investigated, however, most were closed and written off within a day or so. They weren’t considered important, or no evidence could be found against them, or it just didn’t seem plausible that such a kind woman would kill the man she had been happily married to for decades.”

 

“What are you getting at here?”  


“The killer would know each of these cases. Perhaps he felt a personal sense of failure with each closed case. Or he was angry that he couldn’t bring these women to justice by normal means, or that no one would listen to him. He decided to take matters into his own hands.”

  
Lestrade didn’t say anything this time.

 

“Third, the break between victims.”

 

“Maybe the killer was just choosing their next target?”   


“No, this had more to do with me.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Listen. The killer was moving very quickly until I started looking into the case. I figured out how he was drowning them. I broke that mystery. Doing that would have cleared the investigation somewhat, making it easier to pick up details that otherwise went unnoticed. And, if you remember, we were expecting another murder during those three days I took off. It never happened, as though the killer _knew_ I was on the case. And he didn’t wait until I dropped it. He waited until he knew I wouldn’t be able to investigate. Lestrade, did you tell anyone about Silas’s birthday party?”   


Lestrade paused for a moment, thinking. “Yeah, in the break room, right after I got back from the party. Sally was asking about Silas, by the way, she adores that child, don’t let her tell you otherwise, and I talked about it for a while.”   
  
“Was anyone else there?”   
  
“There were people taking a break, or coming in and out.”

 

“Now, this is the most important thing: did you mention that I was on bed rest?”

 

Sherlock could see the moment where Lestrade started to understand. “Yes, I did.”   
  
“And the next murder took place only hours after word of that fact would have spread through Scotland Yard.”

 

“Oh, God.”

 

“So the murderer struck again, right after discovering that I would be unable to go to any crime scenes or to the morgue or do anything but look at videos and pictures. Well, they underestimated me.”

 

“Sherlock--”

 

“Fourth,” Sherlock continued. “Back to the MO. The killer stopped attempting to hide the way they were killing the victims. As you can see, there as deep indentations from where the oxygen-turned-drowning mask was pressed down. There was no plastic sheeting set up to catch the extra water this time. The killer simply held it down tightly over her face, creating a seal that wouldn’t let water drip. He knew that we had figured it out, and he didn’t have any point in hiding it anymore. You would need inside information to figure that out, since we never released that detail to the press. Therefore, an officer.”

 

“Sherlock, this means--”

 

“Fifth, there was no sign of forced entry at any of the residences of the victims. The killer was let inside voluntarily. Now, what kind of person do we let into our homes without question? Hm?”

 

Lestrade closed his eyes, deflating slightly. “A police officer.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself, Sherlock. This is a mess. A horrible, horrible mess.”

 

“From here, Lestrade, I would look at the officers involved in investigation the victims’ husbands. I think you will find your culprit there.”

 

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. “Yeah…yeah, thanks, Sherlock.”

 

“Happy to help,” Sherlock said, unable to control some of his smugness.

 

“I’ll keep you updated.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Sherlock hung up and tossed the phone next to him, feeling very satisfied with life in general.

 

John entered the bedroom, doubtlessly listening at the door. He confirmed that a second later when he set Silas down on the bed and said, “That was brilliant, love.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, preening and running a hand through Silas’s curls.

 

“Sad though, that it’s an officer.”

 

“Why sad?”   
  
“It’s someone Lestrade trusts, maybe even someone we trust. It’s scary, too. How many times have we asked a random officer to keep an eye on Silas for a few minutes? Granted, not that frequently because he screams when we leave him, but it _has_ happened. What if the killer was one of them? Bloody terrifying thought.”

 

“Bloody,” Silas repeated scrunching up his perfect little face, like he was trying to concentrate on proper pronunciation.

 

“Oh, that’s not a good word,” John sighed. “Sorry about that.”   
  
“Bloody!”

 

“There are worse words,” Sherlock allowed.

 

“BLOODY!”

 

“Oy, stop with the screeching,” John scolded.

 

Silas flopped himself over and crawled closer to Sherlock, drumming out a rhythm-less beat against his mountain of a stomach.

 

“How are you feeling?” John asked, eyeing the stomach with something close to fear.

 

“I think it’s going to be soon,” Sherlock admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “I just…I feel a bit like I’m going insane in my own skin. And I only felt that way for a few days before Silas was born.”

 

“Well, I hope it’s soon. I think we’ve really pushed our luck with this pregnancy. I’ll sleep easier when I know that everyone is safe.” 

 

… …

 

John puttered around the flat during the day, unwilling to leave Sherlock for any longer than it took to go to the shops or get the mail.

 

Sherlock heard him moving around, tidying up and organizing the nursery on the second floor, rearranging it multiple times over the course of the day.

 

Silas was left with him for the most part, although John returned at regular intervals to change his diaper and feed him. And every two hours or so, John sat on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock with a possessiveness known only to alphas. He didn’t always say anything, he just watched, rested his hand on Silas’s head and smiled at his mate.

 

Sherlock pretended not to bask in the attention.

 

When John wasn’t there, Sherlock played with Silas or flipped through cold cases. There wasn’t really anything else for him to do but wait.

 

And wait.

 

And wait.

 

It was miserable.

 

Sherlock nearly jumped to his feet in joy when Lestrade called.

 

“Any progress?”

 

“There’s an officer Daniels,” Lestrade said, sounding broken. “He’s been on the force for twenty years. He worked the first case.”   


“Just the first case?” Sherlock scoffed. “That’s hardly a connection.”   
  
“Well, that’s why it took so long to find this. Donovan and I had to look closer. Daniels has something else in his background that makes him a suspect.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“His father died out of the blue when he was ten years old. His mother was investigated but never charged. Apparently he had been very close to his father and when he saw the same thing happen again…”   
  
“He snapped and decided to make his own justice,” Sherlock finished. “I understand.”

 

“Yeah…it’s just…we would go out for pints sometimes, yeah? He was a good man. I hope…I hope it’s a coincidence.”

  
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Sherlock scolded. “You know that as well as I do. Have you taken him into custody, yet?”   
  
“Not yet,” Lestrade sighed. “We’re heading over to his flat now. I’ll let you know how all this pans out.” There was a pause. “Thank you for your help, Sherlock.”   
  
Sherlock blinked rapidly, surprised. “Right. Um. You’re welcome. Oh! And, um, sorry. That he was your friend. I think?”

 

Lestrade let out a bark of humorless laughter. “Yeah, thanks Sherlock.”

 

He hung up.

 

Sherlock stared at his phone. That gave him…a strange feeling.

 

Was that guilt?   
  
Absurd. Sherlock solved the crime, there was no reason for him to feel guilty.

 

… …

 

Sherlock sent John on a walk after the alpha rearranged the nursery for the third time in one day. It was nearly evening, true, but John really needed some fresh air. And Silas was getting fussy as well.

 

John left after enormous hesitation and reminding Sherlock several times that he had his phone with him.

 

Left alone in the silence of the flat, Sherlock let out his breath and relaxed. 

 

He rested his hands on his stomach and smiled. “Very soon,” he murmured to the lump. “You’ll get the fuck out of my body and I’ll be my own person again.”

 

The babies kicked in protest.

 

“It’s okay. You’ll like outside a lot better. There’s so much more to see.”

 

Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

 

**We can’t find Daniels. –Lestrade**

**Look harder. SH**

**Tell John to get his gun. –Lestrade**

**The gun I don’t know anything about, of course. –Lestrade**

**We think he might be heading to you. –Lestrade**

Sherlock’s heart was hammering in his chest.

 

And then, as though it had been waiting for its cue, the front door slammed open.

 

**I think he might already be here. SH**

Sherlock was abruptly thankful that he had sent John on a walk. At least Silas was out of the flat.

 

Sherlock scrambled with his phone, trying to type faster than the footsteps were pounding up the stairs.

 

**VATICAN CAMEOS. SH**

Goddamn group message. Just get everyone on the list….

 

The bedroom door opened

 

Send. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I know I'm horrible because I'm leaving you at this cliffhanger for X number of weeks, but I promise that wasn't intentional, that's just where the story happened to be!
> 
> You can follow me at emptycel.tumblr.com That's where I'll let everyone know when I'm coming back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who wished me well at school and to everyone who suggested baby names!   
> Updates should continue on their regular schedule.

_Never ever threaten an alpha’s omega or pups._

_Ever._

 

… …

 

Back in the army, John learned to hate certain phrases.

 

“Hit the deck.”

 

“Take cover.”

 

 

They never meant that something good was about to happen. They always signified the beginning of the end, that something was going to fall to pieces, or that someone could die.

 

Working in a hospital also taught John several phrases to hate.

 

“Call a code blue.”

 

“Roll in the crash cart.”

 

“He’s gone into tachycardia.”

 

 

But looking at his phone, at the text that buzzed while Silas toddled around the park, John knew that he would never hate another phrase more.

 

**VATICAN CAMEOS. SH**

John had always thought that the code words were a good idea. It was one of the few safety related things that he and Sherlock could ever agree on.

 

But this goddamn code.

 

John’s phone started ringing. He answered without looking to see who was calling, rushed and on high alert.

 

“Hello?”

 

“John, it’s Lestrade. Did you get the message?”

 

“Yes,” John said shortly, gathering up their things and chasing after Silas to manipulate him back into the stroller. “Care to tell me what the hell is going on?”

 

“It’s the case,” Lestrade explained rapidly. “We found the murderer and he went after Sherlock.”

 

“Shit,” John got Silas into the stroller one handed and almost cried in relief when he saw the annoyingly familiar black car pull up.

 

“Mycroft’s here,” John said quickly. “Already. That was fast. He must have been following me again. Who else did the text go out to? I didn’t check.”

 

“Everyone,” Lestrade said heavily. “Every single person that Sherlock keeps in his contacts. To be fair, that’s less than a dozen people, but Sherlock hates asking _one_ person for help.”

 

A man came out of the black car and held the door open for John. A car seat was provided for Silas. John put his mobile on speaker and set it on the seat so he could strap Silas in and deal with the stroller. “Well, he isn’t asking help for himself,” John pointed out. “He’s doing it for the twins. He would insist on taking care of himself, otherwise. Proud bastard.”

 

“Daddy?” Silas whined, sounding scared.

 

“It’s alright, darling,” John hushed. “I won’t let anything bad happen to Papa or your siblings. I promise.”

 

John finally got himself seated and took the phone back off speaker. “What do we know about this officer? What’s his name? What are his connections?”

 

“His name is Julian Daniels,” Lestrade said. “He’s been on the force for a long time. He’s a born Londoner and knows this city almost as well as Sherlock does. I’ve worked with him a few times. He was always an ‘adequate’ officer. Never really on the track to getting promoted, but never at risk at losing his job. As for connections…police officers collect a lot of those over time. And they collect them all over. We don’t know what he has access to or who owes him a favor.”

 

“Fortunately, we’ve got Mycroft Holmes on the case,” John pointed out, sounding calm for Lestrade’s benefit and for Silas’s. In reality, his heart was hammering in his chest and a cold sweat was starting for break out all over his body. He was in full on panic mode, and only his training was keeping him from losing his head.

 

The car pulled up in front of Baker Street. “I’ve got to go, Greg. I’m back at the flat. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

 

“No need, I’m right behind you. I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

 

They hung up. John unbuckled Silas from the car seat and hurried them out of the car and into the building, fumbling with his keys as he unlocked the door.

 

When he finally got it open, the first thing he did was check Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

 

Dark. Quiet. Empty. Her umbrella was gone, so she was out for the evening. Thank Christ.

 

Next he rushed up the stairs, ignoring the little fussing cries coming from Silas. The baby could tell that something was wrong.

 

“Shh, you’re okay,” John murmured, thanking whatever deity that may or may not be listening that those words were true. “You’re alright.”

 

He used the hem of his jumper to cover his hand while the opened the door. It was slightly ridiculous, considering how many of his fingerprints were already on it, but he didn’t want to damage any potential evidence. And if this Daniels guy knew that he had been caught out, he probably wouldn’t be all that concerned with covering his tracks.

 

“Papa,” Silas whined, looking around for Sherlock as soon as they entered the flat.

 

“Sherlock!” John yelled, scanning the room quickly. There was no response.

 

John set Silas in a play pen (despite his loud protestations) and hurried to the bedroom. “Sherlock?”

 

Empty. The nest remained on the bed, although it was slightly askew. There was no other sign that the room had been disturbed. There was nothing that indicated Sherlock had been dragged (John _did_ learn a thing or two about deduction after being married to Sherlock for two years), which, to John’s relief, meant that Sherlock went quietly.

 

At least the omega had enough presence of mind to try and prevent the twins from being harmed as much as possible.

 

There were thundering footsteps up the stairs, the sound of Silas crying unhappily, and suddenly John was surrounded by police officers. Greg was trying to talk to him, but John wasn’t really listening. He was already trying to figure out what Sherlock would have done had John been the one who was kidnapped.

 

He would have tried to create a list of Daniels’s assets and associates. Then eliminate the options one by one until the only possible solution was staring back at him.

 

He also probably would have done something fancy with dirt or particulates to help narrow that search, but that was beyond John’s capabilities.

 

Silas’s cries grew closer as Sally carried him into the room. The sound snapped John out of his thoughts, his alpha instinct rearing up at the sight of someone else holding his child.

 

“Give him to me!” he snapped, restraining himself while Sally wordlessly handed him his son.

 

Silas clutched at him and continued to cry pitifully.

 

“What do we know about Daniels?” John asked, interrupting everything that was going on around him. “Who might help him? Where would he take Sherlock?”

 

“We have a lead,” Sally said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Officer Daniels has a brother who owns some warehouses on the outskirts of the city. We think that it’s likely Sherlock will be taken to one of them.”

 

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “No, Daniels is a cop. He knows how you lot think. He wouldn’t take Sherlock anywhere that obvious. We have to dig deeper, find something that seemingly unconnected. It’s in the anomalies that we’re going to find him, not the patterns.”

 

“Then we don’t have a lot to go on,” Lestrade said, his voice breaking just slightly under the weight of helplessness that John was trying so desperately to ignore.

 

It didn’t help that in situations like this, it was _Sherlock_ that they would turn to.

 

John looked around the bedroom, trying to find something, _anything_ , that was out of place. He knew Sherlock. He knew him better than anyone on the planet. Sherlock would have left something. Some stupid sign or hint or… _anything_.

 

There was a small commotion in the sitting area. John, alpha instincts still bristling, immediately turned to see what was going on. He stalked into the sitting area and immediately zeroed in on the alpha that shouldn’t be there.

 

Mycroft was supervising his team comb through the flat, looking for evidence. John twitched with the desire to punch something in the face, but he reminded himself that he was still holding his son and managed to keep his voice remarkably calm.

 

“Hello, Mycroft. Have you found anything?”

 

“Not yet,” Mycroft said, his voice tight and tense. “I have some agents going through the CCTV footage, trying to piece together a picture of where this Daniels was going with Sherlock. Fortunately, I believe he was unaware that Sherlock even had a brother, and wasn’t taking any precautions against my interference. We should have something shortly, John. Don’t worry.”

 

John wasn’t actually all that worried. He was furious, possessive, and scared, but not worried. He could feel Sherlock across the bond. He knew that his mate was still alive and, while a bit anxious, was not currently in a state of mortal terror.

 

So he was not worried anymore.

 

He was absolutely murderous.

 

Mycroft seemed to pick up on his train of thought, because the next words out of his mouth were, “Don’t worry John. He will most certainly pay for this.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock knew exactly where he was.

 

Which was really, really depressing, because he didn’t have any idea how John was supposed to figure it out.

 

Daniels was good, that much was true. The tall, broad shouldered alpha was more than just a formidably physical force. He had a decent mind. Not as good as Sherlock’s of course, but he did find somewhere completely random to shove Sherlock for a few hours.

 

(Why not just kill him? Unless he was planning something else? The alpha’s instincts must be interfering with his logical thought. It would have been much smarter simply to shoot Sherlock in the head and disappear. Perhaps the scent of an omega, nearly ready to give birth, was too much to resist? His instincts would tell him to wait it out, claim the pups as his own, and force Sherlock into becoming his mate. Hopefully Daniels wasn’t a mindless alpha and was able to see that wouldn’t, in any world, work, ever.)

 

(However, since Sherlock was still alive, it wasn’t looking as though logic was having a great day.)

 

But nothing is ever _really_ random. Daniels was connected to this place. There was just no way that Scotland Yard would ever find it.

 

However, Sherlock did have a Mycroft. Mycrofts tend to be more annoying, but they’re also better a finding the things that other people miss.

 

And Sherlock had a John.

 

Which was really the best sort of thing to have.

 

… …

 

“I agree with John that Daniels wouldn’t have taken Sherlock anywhere obvious,” Mycroft said, flipping through the messages on his mobile. Some of his agents were coming in with information. “However, people are a bit predictable in some senses. Daniels is, according to official records, an alpha. He wouldn’t take an omega somewhere he didn’t consider at least partially his territory.”

 

“So?” Greg asked, throwing up his hands. “We’re watching his flat, but you said nowhere obvious anyway. Where would he be that he considered safe?”

 

“We’re working on it,” Mycroft sighed.

 

There was the sound of arguing crescendo-ing up the staircase. John rubbed his eyes, wondering what on Earth could possibly be happening now.

 

“Out of the way,” Irene ordered arrogantly, sashaying her way up the stairs. “I got a text.”

 

“When did Sherlock teach _you_ the code?” John asked incredulously.

 

“What else do you think he does while he’s bedridden?” she asked, setting her purse down on the sofa and leaning back against the wall. “We text.”

 

“Omegas,” Mycroft grumbled darkly. “Always forming packs. Even my brother isn’t immune.”

 

“Instincts are weird,” Irene reminded him. “And Sherlock’s only other friend is his alpha. Not healthy for an omega. But I digress. Sherlock called in the cavalry, and I have arrived. I’ve already alerted several of my contacts in the city.”

 

“And what are criminal contacts going to do?” Greg asked, scowling at Irene. John had explained the Irene situation a bit more fully after the baby shower, leaving Greg with a seething dislike of the omega on principle.

 

“Julian Daniels was a rather prolific serial killer,” Irene pointed out. “Original, interesting, smart. He caught the attention of quite a few people in my world.”

  
“Wait, you knew who he was?” John asked, stunned.

 

“Of course,” Irene said with a shrug. “It’s not like anyone asked _me_ to investigate the case. And Sherlock would have sulked for weeks if I spoiled his mystery for him.”

 

John mentally conceded that was definitely true, but didn’t admit anything out loud.

 

“He was on his way to getting a sponsor,” Irene continued. “I know of a man who would _love_ to rub elbows with someone who was stumping Sherlock Holmes. So Daniels was being watched, by someone with a wider reach than even big brother here.”

 

Mycroft made a scoffing noise and didn’t look up from his phone.

 

“And that someone happens to be a big fan of our favorite detective,” Irene finished. “He won’t let Sherlock die yet. We’ll get the information we need, and we’ll have Sherlock home safe and sound, you’ll see.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock felt John relax over the bond.

 

Not so much that Sherlock thought they had found him, but they had made progress.

  
That was a comforting thought.

 

Which were rather hard to come by when you were sitting in the basement of a church, waiting for a psychopath to return.

 

Where did he even _go?_  

 

Ah, there, that was the sound of the door opening.

 

And that was the sound of footsteps.

 

Sherlock shut his eyes, willing Daniels to go away again.

 

God, his back hurt.

 

He tried to breathe through the cramp, relieved when it finally passed.

 

He would have given it more than a passing thought if Daniels hadn’t chosen that moment to click the safety off a gun.

 

… …

 

“Something’s changed,” John said suddenly, springing into action. He put Silas in playpen and started clenching and unclenching his fists. “Sherlock’s scared.”

 

“I don’t blame him, he’s been kidnapped,” Greg started, but John waved him off.

 

“No, he was fine, before. He was anxious, but he wasn’t scared. Now he’s scared. Something’s changed.” John paced around the room. “I can’t figure out what!”

 

“Well, it’s not as though Daniels was going to ransom Sherlock,” Irene said, still calm. “He didn’t take him only to return him in perfect condition. If I were him, I’d keep Sherlock until the pups were born and then sell them on the black market.”

 

_“What?!”_

 

She shrugged. “There are plenty of betas who are willing to pay a big sum of money in order to skip over the adoption process. Not to mention, omegas are statistically more likely to give birth to other omegas. There are people in the sex trade who would buy the twins on the off chance that one would present omega.”

 

“Irene,” John growled, beating back a lot of violence.

 

Irene lowered her head, a clear sign of submission, although she was visibly annoyed at having to resort to it. “Keep in mind that this won’t happen instantaneously,” Irene continued, her voice purposely pitched low and calming. “If Daniels decides to go for a cesarean section, it would take him a while to obtain a facility and a doctor willing to perform the procedure. Even with the right contacts it would take days. Our biggest worry is that Daniels will move Sherlock and fall off the grid. So long as they stay in London, and so long as Sherlock doesn’t go into labor, we’ll be fine.”

 

John froze in his tracks, realizing for the first time the implication of the entire situation.

 

It wasn’t just that Sherlock was taken and that he was in danger. That alone was distressing enough.

 

But Sherlock had been abruptly forced off bed rest and into mortal danger.

 

Bed rest that he had been on in order to avoid going into early labor. 

 

John met Mycroft’s eyes and knew that the man was thinking the same things.

 

They had a lot less time than they thought.

 

… …

 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, flinching at the sound of a gunshot.

 

But nothing came. No bullet, no pain.

 

Nothing happened to Sherlock, at least.

 

He opened his eyes just in time to see Daniels slump to the ground, a pool of crimson growing over the cold concrete.

 

With an embarrassing amount of hesitation, Sherlock looked up and met the eyes of the person who fired the shot.

 

… …

 

In the end, it was Irene that came through for them.

 

Mycroft was absolutely furious, of course. And not for the proper reasons. He was embarrassed that Irene’s connections got to Sherlock before his own.

 

After the call came through, it was only a quick drive to an old church.

 

One that, Mycroft was able to inform them soon enough, Julian Daniels used to attend when he was a child.

 

There was no sign of Irene’s contacts when they arrived. The Woman herself was absent, having gone home once Sherlock’s safety was assured.

 

John led the charge to the basement of the church, the officers knowing that it was never a good idea to get in between an alpha and their omega.

 

People tended to die when that happened.

 

The basement was mostly empty, but for some old boxes and decorations in storage.

 

And of course, the two men. One of which was sitting in a small folding chair, the other one bleeding out on the ground.

 

There was a spray of blood on Sherlock’s clothes, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. John fell to his knees in front of him.

 

“How are you, love?” John asked, his voice shaking with a desperate need for reassurance. “Are you alright?”

 

Sherlock turned to John and smiled. “I made a new friend today.”   


John paused. “Did you?”   


“Yes,” Sherlock said, nodding. “She shot Daniels. I think that someone who shoots a serial killer for you is a good person to keep as a friend.”  
  
“Sherlock, are you in shock?”

 

“Little bit, yes.”

 

The police officers took this opportunity to march into the basement. Greg stared at Daniels’ body in horror for a moment before turning to Sherlock, demanding to know what happened.

 

“Well, Irene was involved,” Sherlock started, still sitting in the folding chair. “So she made some calls and a master assassin showed up. She was very good, I didn’t even hear her come in. And I was only kidnapped for about an hour, so that just goes to show how quickly the criminal world can move when they put their mind to it. Help me to my feet John, my back is killing me.”

 

John pulled Sherlock to his feet and put his arm around his husband’s waist, ready to support his weight as they walked back to the police cruiser.

 

However, they only managed five feet before Sherlock let out a tiny, “Oh.”

 

And then his water broke.


	8. Chapter 8

_Omegas, renowned for fertility and relative ease of childbirth, are by no means safe from risk, especially in the male omega._

… …

 

“I refuse,” Sherlock insisted as soon as the contraction eased up.

 

“Sherlock--” John said, twitching with irritation.

 

“No, shut up, John,” Sherlock snapped, wincing when John flinched as though he had been slapped. He knew that he was pushing the alpha a little too far, but he was the one giving birth, goddammit, and he would do it the way he wanted to. “We did a home birth for Silas and we’d planned on doing the same for the twins. I’m not going to let anything change that.”

 

John clenched and unclenched his fists before he finally nodded. “Mrs. Hudson is back at the flat now,” John sighed. “She promised to watch Silas. We’ll go through the birth as planned--”

 

“Thank God.”

 

“—but I’m calling in some reinforcements.”

 

Sherlock was interrupted by another contraction. He waited until he got his breath back before asking. “Who could you possibly want there?”

 

… …

 

“Hi!” Molly said enthusiastically, as soon as she entered the flat. She arrived only a few moments after they did, and quickly got to work, babbling the whole time. “Oh, I’m so excited. I’ve never helped deliver a baby before. I usually just cut up dead people, so it’s sort of the opposite of my normal job, isn’t it?”

 

“Stop talking,” Sherlock groaned, leaning heavily on John. “Just. Stop.”

 

Sherlock had protested the addition the entire ride home, but John had gone all alpha on him and refused to budge. Annoying.

 

“I’ll remake the nest,” she said, hurrying to the bedroom. “Make sure it’s sterile and all that.”

 

As soon as she was gone, Sherlock turned to John was pleading eyes. “Make her leave.”

 

“You’re delivering two babies on short notice,” John reminded him. “We need help. An alpha is right out, we only know two omegas—and while I know you’re friends with Irene, there’s no way in hell that I’m letting her deliver our children, and Harry stopped letting Clara within three feet of me—and Molly has some medical education.”

 

“She works with dead people, John! She was right, that is very much the opposite of delivering a child.”

 

“Two children, and Molly wants nothing more than to clean them off and wrap them in fluffy blankets.”

 

Another contraction left Sherlock unable to argue. John took the opportunity to manhandle him into the bedroom.

 

Molly and John worked together to help Sherlock strip a bit. He hadn’t had the chance to change out of his pajamas in the whole kidnapping fiasco, so the task was completed quickly and Sherlock soon found himself lying on his back, wondering how the hell he possibly got to this point in his life.

 

He could have stayed a bachelor, he mentally sighed. He could have run around the city, being shot at and solving crimes and not have his legs spread like a whore, staring at the mountain that was once his stomach.

 

He used to have _abs._

 

Those days were long gone.

 

Another contraction, Jesus, they were getting close together.

 

“Wow, only three minutes,” John said, glancing at his watch. “But they aren’t lasting long enough. You aren’t dilating yet.”

 

“God, I hate this. It’s like limbo,” Sherlock sighed.

 

John gave him a sympathetic smile and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Stupid alpha, pretending he understood how much this sucked.

 

Molly was still bustling around, heating water in the kitchen and giving John cloths for wiping the sweat off Sherlock’s brow. It was all very picturesque, but Sherlock was, quite honestly, bored.

 

“Ow! Fuck!”

 

And then the contractions would come back.

 

“I swear they’re getting longer,” Sherlock practically pleaded.

 

“Not yet,” John said soothingly. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call the midwife?”

 

“Don’t you dare. They know less about omega biology than normal doctors.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“That horrid woman who tried to help us with Silas kept ordering me to do the opposite things you were suggesting and it was awful. _God_ is this going to end soon?”

 

… …

 

Against Sherlock’s wishes, John did slip out of the room and have a midwife on standby. And, knowing Mycroft, there was an ambulance on standby as well. Too many things could go wrong to give into Sherlock’s stupid pride.

 

“He’s dozing,” Molly said, slipping out of the bedroom to stand in the hall with John. “Poor thing’s exhausted.”

 

“He’s allowed to be,” John sighed. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”

 

“I know,” Molly said grimly. “I got the text. Didn’t understand it, though. Sherlock never taught me the code.”

 

“Remind me to run you through it,” John said, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes for a second. It was getting late, and John’s adrenaline supply was finally winding down.

 

“Was Silas’s birth alright?” Molly asked. “I’d never pried before, but afterwards, Sherlock seemed…”

 

“He was shell shocked,” John said with a small chuckle. “The birth went smoothly, but I don’t think that it ever occurred to Sherlock that he would actually end up with a child at the end of the pregnancy. Well, it did in abstract way, but he was completely floored the first time he held Silas.” John smiled. “He was delirious with exhaustion and his curls were all plastered to his head with sweat and he just looked at the baby, then looked back up at me, and asked, ‘Is this real?’ He couldn’t believe that the teeny tiny creature he was holding belonged to him.”

 

Molly smiled with him. “Sherlock’s a bit of a teddy bear, underneath it all, isn’t he?”

 

John nodded. “But for the love of God, don’t tell him I said that. He would poison my tea.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock attempted to maintain some form of dignity throughout the entire process.

 

After all, he had an image to uphold.

  
It was one thing if it had just been John there. John had already seen Sherlock at his best and worst. He had seen Sherlock sweating and gasping, absolutely unwound into a senseless being of feeling and emotion and zero logical thought. He had seen Sherlock begging in the throes of heat and seen him pliant and calm after a long night spent in each other’s company. John had seen Sherlock bleeding, trying to stay still as he was stitched up. He had seen Sherlock laughing, utterly uninhibited and free.

 

But Molly had not.

 

The distinction was plain and simple.

 

And so dignity must be maintained.

 

“How are you feeling?” Molly would asked, her voice pitched low to be soothing. Sherlock bristled, resenting the implication that he was something that needed to be _soothed_.

 

“Fine,” he snapped, turning away. “Just giving birth. No big deal.”

 

She gave him a sympathetic look (slightly less annoying than the one John had given him, as it was edged with a bit of fear, most likely Molly realizing that she would be in a similar predicament if she ever got pregnant.)

 

“It’s been a while,” she said. “I’ll get John to check on the dilation.”

 

She left and John entered the room a few moments later.

 

“Can I…?” John started, giving Sherlock a look.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really John, as though it wasn’t something you had already seen before.”

 

John smirked. “Sorry, just remembering you kicked the midwife last time.”   
  
“Her hands were _cold_ ,” Sherlock defended for the umpteenth time.

 

“And…you’re starting to dilate.”

 

“Starting to?”

 

“We’ve got a ways to go, I’m afraid.”

 

“FUCK.”

 

… …

 

“How’s he holding up?” Greg asked.

 

“Fine,” John answered, putting the mobile on speaker so he could wash his hands. “Still won’t let me bring in a doctor.”

 

“Aren’t you a doctor?”

 

“A _proper_ doctor,” John clarified. “One that’s actually done this before.”

 

“Well,” Greg said, and John swore he heard the man smiling. Could you hear a smile? “You were there last time, so I suppose you’re just going to have to imitate everything the midwife did.”   


“Sherlock _hated_ the midwife,” John complained. “I called Doctor Fisher, but she is currently on holiday, getting back tomorrow, just our luck. She gave me a rundown of everything and strongly recommended that we bring in someone who specializes in omega births, but Sherlock is still being unreasonable. I’ve contacted a different midwife, but I’ll only call her over if the labor hits the twenty four hour mark.”

 

“What if something goes wrong?” Greg asked, sounding worried. “He’s delivering prematurely, isn’t he? Should you be prepared for that?”

 

“Mycroft’s taking care of any potential emergencies,” John assured him. “And we have every intention in taking the pups to the hospital as soon as they’re born. Sherlock won’t forgive me for it, but I can’t really care too much. So far it’s going smoothly, just slowly.”

 

“Well, I’ll let you go,” Greg said. “I just realized you’ve probably been up all night. You should probably get a bit of sleep while it’s quiet.”

 

On cue, the sound of Sherlock yelling through the pain of a particularly bad contraction carried into the kitchen.

 

“Well, bye,” Greg said quickly and the line disconnected.

 

John left his phone on the counter and put on a pair of latex gloves.

  
At this point, Sherlock had been in labor for twelve hours. It was six in the morning and Greg had called as soon as he’d woken up.

 

John, on the other hand, had yet to go to sleep. 

 

Molly was dozing on the sofa. She would probably wake up again soon and make some tea. Or strong coffee. Really, really strong coffee.

 

John entered the bedroom and gave Sherlock a tired smile, remembering that he, at least, had the good end of the bargain. Sherlock was beyond tired. He fell asleep in between contractions, but they were so close together that it wasn’t restful.

 

“Unless you’re here to tell me that I’m ready to push, go away,” Sherlock said without cracking an eye open.

 

“I’ve got to check first,” John said soothingly. “It should be too long. Remember--”

 

“Omegas dilate much faster,” Sherlock interrupted. “Yes, I know.”

 

John rolled his eyes and crouched to check the current state of affairs in Sherlock’s uterus. “Wow, you’re close,” John said, surprised. “Let me make sure that babies are positioned correctly. You might be ready to start pushing.”

 

“Thank God.”

 

John gently probed Sherlock’s stomach, trying to find the pups.

 

“Baby number one is lined up and ready to go,” John murmured. “I can’t find baby number two.”

 

“It hasn’t gone anywhere,” Sherlock snapped. “Maybe I should have gotten a different doctor. One who is competent.”

  
John gave Sherlock a level look before going back to looking for the second baby.

 

“Here we are,” John said, finally finding it up near Sherlock’s ribs. “It’s right—uh oh.”

 

“What? John? John!”

 

“Don’t panic,” John said soothingly, though his own heart was pounding in his chest. “It’s just a little bit flipped around.”

 

“Flipped around? It’s breeched?!”

 

“Not yet,” John said quickly, letting Sherlock squeeze his hand when another contraction hit. “It’s coming out last, so we might have a chance to flip it after baby number one is born.”

 

“John--”

 

“But Sherlock, if something goes wrong, we aren’t equipped to deal with it here,” John said seriously. “Hell, we aren’t equipped to deal with premature delivery either.”

 

Sherlock waved that off. “They’re term. That wasn’t a problem.”   
  
“They’re early,” John insisted. “But never mind. If we can’t flip him…”

 

Sherlock groaned through another contraction, then tried to get to his feet.

 

“Sherlock--”

 

“Can’t wait,” Sherlock said, maneuvering himself into crouch. “Baby number one is coming. Tell Mycroft to have his ambulance ready as soon as number one comes out. And call that stupid midwife you think you kept a secret. She can meet us at the hospital.”

 

John left out a breath in relief before positioning himself to support Sherlock’s weight. “Molly!” he yelled. The beta ran into the room. “My phone’s on the counter,” he told her. “Call Mycroft and tell him to get ready to get Sherlock to the hospital.”

 

“Is everything okay?” she asked, her eyes wide.

 

“Baby’s position is off. It will probably be okay, we just need to take precautions.”

 

“Right,” Molly said, hurrying out of the room again.

 

“Push on the next contraction,” John ordered. Sherlock nodded wordlessly, straining, then pushing.

 

… …

 

Childbirth is many things.

 

It is, first and foremost, really, really gross.

 

Molly wasn’t really sure what she was doing, but the icky, bloody mess between Sherlock’s legs was freaking her the fuck out.

 

She had a sterile blanket in her arms, vaguely aware that her job was to catch the baby and not drop it, but she was a little more focused on the horrifying sight before her.

 

There was also a little part of her mind thinking that Sherlock must be humiliated, having her see him like this. She felt bad, but not that bad, because John was holding up Sherlock’s shoulders so Sherlock could crouch and they needed _someone_ to catch the baby and not drop it.

 

She _really_ hoped that she didn’t drop it.

 

And…ew…that was the head.

 

“I see the head!” she called out, her voice steady. After all, it wasn’t like she was going to faint or throw up or anything. She cut up dead people for a living. That was a little bit more hardcore than childbirth.

 

But this was still gross.

 

“He’s crowning,” John told Sherlock soothingly. “Just a little more. Once the shoulders get through, it will be easier.”

  
“Shut the fuck up, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Ah!”

 

Ack, this was disgusting. Molly tried to position her hands so she could guide the baby out, but John was right. Once the shoulders got through, the rest came smoothly.

 

And loudly.

 

Baby number one had an impressive set of lungs.

 

And, oh, a penis.

 

“Boy!” Molly announced, wrapping the blanket around him. “Aren’t we supposed to suction goop out of his lungs?”

 

“Yes,” John said, helping Sherlock lie down and taking the baby from Molly. He quickly cut the umbilical cord and started clearing his lungs. “Go get the paramedics.”

  
“Right,” Molly said, a little dazed and feeling very bad that Sherlock had to go through all that again.

 

There was medical personnel waiting in the hallway. Molly beckoned them in, and the entered with a stretcher and a whole bunch of medical supplies.

 

“Alright, Mr. Watson-Holmes,” the medic said. “We’ll just help you on the stretcher. Mr. Watson-Holmes,” this time it was directed towards John. “Please make sure Baby One is wrapped tightly. He’ll need a proper examination.”

 

John scowled and Molly figured that the medic must be a beta. Alphas did not like taking orders at times like these.

 

“He’s _had_ a proper examination,” John grumbled. “And he isn’t Baby One. He’s Sean.”

 

It took Molly a second, but she got it. “Oh! Like Sherlock and John put together!”

 

The medic was unimpressed. He coaxed Sherlock onto the stretcher the team moved out. John followed with baby Sean.

  
“Molly, can you grab that diaper bag and follow us to the hospital?” John asked, indicating a tote bag in the corner of the room.

 

“Of course,” Molly said, and John hurried out, still clutching the whining newborn to his chest. She waited until the noises stopped and the door shut before moving. She quickly stripped the sheets, put them in a disgusting pile in the corner, scrubbed a slightly horrifying stain off the floor and gathered up her things. She grabbed the diaper bag, made sure all the windows were shut and locked, then locked the door of 221B behind her.

 

… …

 

“Doubling footling breech,” Doctor Singh confirmed. Neither John nor Sherlock had ever met her before, but she was an omega and seemed like she was good at her job. With those two criteria met, Sherlock stopped complaining, decided they didn’t need the midwife after all, and instead started worrying that the labor had slowed down _a lot_.

 

Baby One (still waiting on official naming, although John was already thinking of him as Sean Benjamin Watson-Holmes) was healthy and happy; a robust little baby that would probably have caused Sherlock to go into labor anyway out of sheer self-preservation. He was a solid nine pounds and very big for his gestational age.

 

From what they could tell, Baby Two was considerably smaller and, as John feared, flipped completely around.

 

“He’s trying to come through the birth canal feet first,” she sighed, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

 

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and resisted the urge to push. Both of them were waiting anxiously to see what Dr. Singh would do.

 

“A lot of doctors would order a cesarean,” Dr. Singh said. “However, since you’re a male omega, we have a few options. I could perform a cesarean, or,” here she held up her gloved hands. “I could push the legs back up and flip him internally.”

 

“That one,” Sherlock said, spreading his legs wider. “Definitely that one.”

 

Dr, Singh smiled. “Thought so. Now, I know it’s asking a lot for you to relax right now, but I need you to avoid tensing up as much as possible.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and ducked his head towards John. John bent over him and pressed a few kisses to his sweaty forehead. “You’re doing beautifully,” John assured him. “My perfect mate. My stunning, gorgeous omega.”

  
After the tensest silence that John had ever endured, Dr. Singh made a noise of triumph. “He’s in position. You can push now, Mr. Watson-Holmes.”

 

And Sherlock, desperate to get the fucking thing _out_ of him at this point, pushed for all that he was worth. 

 

It still took forever, but then there was a sudden sense of relief. He did it.

 

“Congratulations,” Dr. Singh said, a bit breathlessly. “It’s a girl.”

 

Nurses were suddenly in motion while Baby Two was being cleaned up and taken care of. Sherlock was permitted to hold her for less than a minute before someone else came in and started fussing with the afterbirth.

 

John cuddled her close, noting how much smaller she was than her brother, and smiled.   
  
“Charlotte,” Sherlock said decisively. “Charlotte Molly Watson-Holmes.”

 

“Molly? Really?”

 

“She didn’t drop Sean. That deserves some form of recognition.”

 

“Alright,” John laughed. “Sean and Charlotte. They sound good together.”

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, his eyes drifting closed. “Sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Sean was suggested by Xedra. So was the middle name Benjamin. 
> 
> The name Charlotte was suggested by kitmerlot1213
> 
> The breech delivery was suggested by Holmesian.
> 
> One more chapter and an epilogue left, guys.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the full names of the children are: 
> 
> Silas Scott Watson-Holmes   
> Sean Benjamin Watson-Holmes  
> Charlotte Molly Watson-Holmes

“No,” Lestrade sighed as soon as they saw them. “You’re not doing this again.”

 

“But now it’s tradition,” Sherlock protested, proudly setting the carrier with Charlotte in a central location so all of the officers and members of the forensics team could appreciate her magnificence. “And John was very upset when he missed Silas’s first crime scene.”

 

“Although I did protest that they were less than a month old,” John said, setting Sean next to his little sister. Silas was being baby sat by Molly. Now that he was toddling around, everyone agreed that it would be safer to keep him away from gruesome murders.

 

“Silas was only ten days old,” Sherlock said dismissively. “And he appears to be okay.”

 

“Mostly,” John added.

 

“Sherlock, this is how people get fired,” Lestrade said, feigning patience. “And also how you get your children taken away from you.”

 

“It’s only a domestic homicide,” Sherlock protested. “They’re perfectly safe.”

 

As if on cue, Sean started crying.

 

“I’ve got him, go deduce, love. You know you want to.” John carefully extracted the three week old infant from his carrier, making shushing noises and trying to calm him down before he set his sister off as well.

 

“Oh my God, shut that thing up!” Anderson called from across the room.

 

“Stop that!” Donovan scolded, smacking Anderson lightly on the arm. “He’s a baby, not a thing.”

 

John blinked in surprise and decided not to question it. Donovan had always been especially tolerant of Silas after all. And she was looking at Sean with a decidedly hungry expression.

 

“Biological clock is ticking,” Sherlock murmured, appearing beside John suddenly. “Her maternal instincts are on overdrive.” Sherlock gave Sally a speculative glance. “If you feel comfortable with it, you can let her hold Sean, I suppose. It would be helpful if she stopped hating us. Or, well, me. More babysitters never hurt.”

 

Sherlock pranced off to make more deductions.

 

“Sally?” John called out apologetically. “Would you might holding Sean for a moment? I need to get Charlotte before she starts to fuss.”

 

“John!” Lestrade exclaimed. “It’s one thing to bring newborns to a crime scene, we had been over this a year ago. But when you start taking up the time of my officers--”

 

“I don’t mind!” Sally interrupted cheerily, appearing nearly as quickly as Sherlock did. Her smile was a bit frightening. “I’ll just be taking him for a moment.” She accepted Sean from John and started cooing. “Oh, you’re a big baby, aren’t you? Who’s a strong boy?”

 

Greg and John shared a shocked look.

 

“I give up,” Greg finally sighed. “I give up!” he announced to the room at large. “God save us all from the progeny of Sherlock Holmes.”

 

… …

 

Silas looked like a tiny Sherlock.

 

Thick black curls, indescribable eyes, ivory skin.

 

Sean looked like a tiny John.

 

He was already very sturdy for his age. And John had the rather horrifying premonition that Sean would have his build and Sherlock’s height. He had very little hair, but it was a golden fuzz that dusted the top of his little head.

 

His eyes were dark blue, and they already looked weary with the world.

 

Charlotte was the oddball.

 

She was born with a lot of hair, and by some quirk of genetics, had a mix of red and brown. Her eyes were all of Sherlock’s silver without a touch of the green-blue. Looking at her face, John could already imagine seeing hints of Sherlock’s cheekbones and maybe a bit of John’s nose.

 

She would be very beautiful, but unusual looking as well.

 

John worried a bit about her.

 

She tended to look at you like she already understood you. Like she was already comprehending the world around her.

 

But John was sure that was just in his imagination.

 

She was only three weeks old, after all.

 

… …

 

221 B was chaos.

 

Loud, overtired, and rather smelly chaos.

 

Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

It had been so dreadfully quiet before Sherlock moved in.

 

Previous tenants had always kept to themselves, they only ever made polite conversation when they bumped into her in the hallway.

 

But Sherlock…Sherlock was so full of life. Everywhere he went was a whirlwind of energy. He carried with him the sense of wonder and appreciation that comes with realizing that you are alive, and what a brilliant, beautiful, and impossible thing that is.

 

Of course, sometimes he also shot up the damn walls, but you had to take the good with the bad.

  
At least he’d put the gun away after Silas came along.

 

And oh, the _children._

 

Never in a million years would Mrs. Hudson have guessed that by letting out 221B, she would finally be opening up her home to what nature and time had deprived her of.

 

Even when she first met John, she wouldn’t have dared to hope that anything would _really_ come from it. Sherlock had obviously been smitten, but she had already steeled herself for the heartbreak she assumed would inevitably follow.

 

But then something wonderful happened and John stayed.

 

He felt the same, brilliant, beautiful, and impossible things she did and saw Sherlock Holmes for the miracle he was.

 

Even if their bonding had been a bit louder than really necessary, thank you.

 

Now Mrs. Hudson shamelessly doted on those children, often volunteering to watch Silas for a few hours while the pair of them got used to caring for twins.

 

And the twins were just precious. Perfect little angels with their perfect chubby cheeks and their perfect little noses.

 

Ah, yes. These were days to be cherished.

 

The times when 221 finally went quiet were precious things. When the noise from flat B finally died down, Mrs. Hudson would often tiptoe up the stairs and slowly push the door open.

 

Inevitably, Sherlock would be lying on the couch asleep, with Silas curled up on his chest. John would have one twin cradled against his shoulder while he slowly rocked the other in a basinet at his feet. Their eyes would meet and he would give her a tiny smile.

 

These were beautiful, beautiful days.

 

She feared for when they would come to an end.

 

… …

 

Molly had been promoted to first choice baby sitter and she could not be more proud of that accomplishment. She worked very hard to maintain that spot. After all, little Charlotte had been partially named after her, and she wanted that girl to think of her as an Aunt or something similar.

 

Molly wouldn’t be too upset if one of the pups accidentally called her Mom once or twice.

 

But she wasn’t _hoping_ for that or anything.

 

Not at all.

 

 

So she was ready to drop almost anything when Sherlock texted and said he and John picked up a case. She called in favors at work, canceled social plans, and arrived at 221B exactly on time. Sherlock always brushed past without even a thank you (although Molly knew that the simple fact he continued to entrust her with his children spoke volumes about his actual level of appreciation and gratitude) but John would always stop for a moment, let her know how all the children were doing, and give her fair warning if Silas had a cold or if Sean was being particularly fussy.

 

Then she would practically skip up the stairs and embrace the chaos that is watching after one toddler and two infants all alone.

 

If the case ran long, John remembered the send Molly a reprieve. More often than not, Sherlock would take any research back to the flat and the two would stay in for as long as they could. Or, if Sherlock couldn’t pull himself away from a crime scene, John would often head back alone to take charge. (These incidents were less common, and Molly often offered to stick around anyway so John wouldn’t have to watch them alone. John appreciated this very much and tried to set her up on dates with some of his rugby mates or army buddies as a thank you.)

 

But more often than not, she simply juggled all the tasks required in keeping three babies happy and healthy for about two or three hours before John and Sherlock hurried home to be with their children again.

 

The look of utter relief on their faces when the family is whole again make Molly glad she’s a beta. She didn’t know if she could handle the stress of being separated on a daily basis.

 

And on these days, Molly would quietly pack up and slip out, leaving the family to reunite in peace.

 

So yes, Molly loves being the favorite baby sitter.

 

If only to pretend, for just a little while, that she belongs to that beautiful family as well.

 

… …

 

Greg basically invited himself over when the twins were a month old.

 

He had been too busy with the fallout over Daniels and a rather alarming increase in the caseload to visit before. Any tentative plans he and John had made had fallen through. After meeting the twins in a brief visit to the hospital a few hours after they were born, he had only seen them occasionally at a rare crime scene. (They didn’t take the twins to nearly as many places as they took Silas, thank God.) Greg decided that he had a few hours to spare, and he was finally going to get to know the future banes of his existence. (He was under no illusions about the inevitable activities of Sherlock Holmes’s children.)

 

Mrs. Hudson let him in and informed him that the twins and Silas were both (by some miracle) currently asleep. He was also told that Sherlock was probably going to be nodding off himself, and that Greg should enter the flat very quietly.

 

He did as he was bid and tiptoed into the space. Sherlock wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so Greg figured that he was probably in the nursery.

 

Since it is apparently an act of sacrilege to wake up sleeping children, Greg simply started snooping through the flat. It had been a while since he’d had to do a drug’s bust, and he sort of missed the sheer incredulity at some of the things Sherlock kept in his home.

 

The skull was still there on the mantle.

 

And so was the weird cow skull wearing headphones.

 

Only harmless experiments in the kitchen.

 

Nothing rotting under the furniture anymore.

 

No cigarettes hidden in a slipper.

 

Nothing under the sofa cushions—oh. Yes, there was.

 

It was a book. A big, thick book bound in plain black leather. There was nothing on it that might indicate what the book was.

 

He opened it.

 

It was a photo album.

 

The first picture was of Silas, still in the hospital, wrapped in one of those generic blankets with a little blue hat on his head.

 

Even in that picture, he seemed to be staring at Greg with Sherlockian disapproval.

 

Greg smiled and turned the page.

 

There were a few shots of Silas in his crib. Silas with Sherlock. Silas with John. Silas with Mrs. Hudson.

 

Silas at his first crime scene, Greg scowling in the background.

 

Then Greg noticed messy black scrawl next to almost every picture.

 

These were…

 

These were measurements?

 

It hit Greg with a rather shocking realization that _Sherlock_ had made this book. _Sherlock_ had done something so…so…so _sentimental_ as making a memory book!   


With a weird combination of numbing shock and uncontained glee, Greg kept flipping through the pages.

 

Silas got older. There were a couple of things pressed into the pages that Greg didn’t understand. Between two pages was a swatch of fabric, some leaves were pressed in a few more. There were some pages of an essay about infant mental development tucked away in the middle. There was a lock of black hair taped to another page.

 

And then Greg got to the twins.

 

“You’re gaping like a fish,” Sherlock said, his voice low and amused.

 

Greg jumped up, setting the book down guiltily.

 

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to, I mean…”   
  
Sherlock smiled, a soft genuine smile that Greg would never have seen three years ago. “It’s fine,” he said. “I just tucked it under there when John stepped in between errands. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

 

Greg was utterly speechless. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I am capable of human emotion, you know.”

 

“I know, it’s just…” Greg didn’t have words. Part of him was still surprised, uncomprehending, but a much bigger part was so _goddamn happy._ He was so happy and proud of this man standing before him. Of everything Sherlock had become.

 

Sherlock seemed to understand what Greg was trying to say. He didn’t say anything though, he simply picked the book up and tucked it under his arm.

 

“If you’re quiet,” Sherlock said at last. “You can peek in on them. Though I warn you, if you wake them up. You get to try and put them back to sleep.”

 

Greg smiled, his throat a little bit tight, and tiptoed up the stairs to the nursery.

 

… …

 

“How’s your fantasy world, darling?” Irene asked Sherlock as soon as he sat down.

 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Sherlock said, avoiding her eyes.

 

Irene sighed internally. She _had_ been hoping that they wouldn’t have to play this game today. “You can’t seriously think that this picture perfect little life you’ve been living could possibly last.”

 

“As far as I am aware, there is nothing threatening it,” Sherlock lied.

 

“It hurts that you lie to me,” Irene lamented. She pulled an envelope out of her purse. “The twins are beautiful. I’m not the only one that’s noticed.”

 

Sherlock opened the envelope, his eyes widening but his expression otherwise blank.

 

He set the photos secretly taken of his family on the table.

 

“What do they want?” Sherlock asked without preamble. “And when did they start following us?”   


“Oh,” Irene said, a little bit of pity surfacing for the poor man. “When did they _start_ following you? Darling, they’ve _always_ been following you. And as for what he wants…I’m not too sure.”   
  
“Then what’s the point of these?” Sherlock asked, gesturing angrily to the photos.

 

“A big fan of yours is getting impatient,” Irene said, wondering how much was in her interest to share. “He’s been dropping you little hints, little cases for a while now, all waiting for you to come to him. He’s getting bored of his game. You’ve disappointed him.”

 

“And you know who this is?”

 

“Of course,” Irene said cheerily. “But I’m not going to tell you.”

 

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, scowling.

 

“Because it isn’t in my interest to do so,” she said, getting to her feet. “Ta for now, love. I hope the dream lasts a little longer.”

 

Irene walked out of the café, never looking behind her, knowing that she was being watched.

 

She was beginning to play a dangerous game.

 

She had to pick a side soon.

 

The question was: what side would win?  


… …

 

“They really are lovely,” John sighed, looking at their babies sleep. “And they’re quiet.”

 

“A true miracle,” Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around John a dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

 

Sherlock sounded a bit distracted, and John knew that something was bothering his mate. He didn’t press it, though. He trusted Sherlock to come to him when he was ready.

 

“Do you think we’re doing a good thing?” Sherlock asked quietly. “Bringing them into this world?”

 

John paused. “That’s some heavy stuff for one in the morning, love.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock sighed. “I was just wondering. No one ever thought that I would make a good father, but I…I just love them so much I don’t even know what to do.”

 

“I know,” John said, shushing him. “You’re doing a fantastic job. And I think we’re doing a very good thing. And yes, this world is a dark place. But we are bringing good, decent human beings into it. We’re adding three new people to try to bring in a little bit of light. And I think that is a very, _very_ good thing.”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then, “That was actually rather profound of you, John.”

 

“I’m not an idiot, despite popular opinion.”

 

“I haven’t called you an idiot in a while.”

 

“I know you haven’t.”

 

“You’re not one, you know.”

 

“I know that, Sherlock.”

 

“Good.”

 

John smiled. “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The memory book/photo album was requested by Cleo_Calliope, who, by the way, made some really neat covers for both Six Steps and this story. You should check them out when you get the chance. 
> 
> There's just an epilogue after this, and then part three.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically porn without any plot. Just so you know.

_Omegas need a brief recovering time after giving birth, but after only a few months the omega will go into heat once more._

 

… …

 

Like clockwork, Sherlock’s heat crept back on him.

 

The signs were there a few days before it set in. Sherlock became increasingly irritable, prone to shutting himself away for hours at a time. His skin became hyper sensitive and everything but his oldest pajamas and his silk robe seemed to irritate it.

 

He refused to dress, refused to take any cases, refused to talk to anyone but John and the children (and sometimes Mrs. Hudson, but only if she came bearing tea and biscuits).

 

It… _annoyed_ Sherlock that he felt this loss of control over himself. He prided himself in being a low instinct omega, the same way that John prided himself in being a very self-controlled alpha. But biology oftentimes got the best of him, and Sherlock found himself, completely against his will, succumbing to the flood of hormones in his brain.

 

While Sherlock stewed in a black cloud of irritability, John quickly and discreetly made arrangements with their legion of baby sitters. They used to leave Silas with Mrs. Hudson, but they couldn’t impose two four month olds and one sixteen month old on her for several days.

 

The children were to be passed off like batons in a relay. Mrs. Hudson would watch Silas for the first day while Molly watched the twins. Then Lestrade would pick up Silas from Mrs. Hudson on the second day, and he and Molly would take the babies out for the day.

 

Then Donovan, of all people, volunteered to look after them for a few hours until Mycroft picked them up the second evening. Mrs. Hudson would be brought to Mycroft’s nice flat, where she would be assisted by Mummy until the heat ended.

 

It kept anyone from being too overworked and everyone from feeling offended that they weren’t asked to baby sit.

 

Sherlock was annoyed with the entire process (and the idea of _anyone_ watching their children for as long as the heat would take) and left every single bit of arranging to John, declaring that every baby sitter was equally horrible and so he didn’t care who watched the kids.

 

That was a blatant lie, as evidenced by the fit Sherlock threw when he discovered that Mycroft and Mummy had gotten themselves involved.

  
Sherlock sulked for so long that John had to ask Molly to come over and help with the twins because he couldn’t handle it alone for more than a few hours.

 

Sherlock had received a lecture for that one, and barely resisted the impulse to shoot the fucking walls.

 

 _Of course_ Sherlock knew he was being cold and irresponsible and irrational. He just couldn’t do a damn thing about it. That’s what was annoying about this entire situation.

 

 

Nevertheless, by the time the heat finally set it, the children had all been taken care of. Sherlock had fallen into a haze of apathy and was sprawled on the sofa when he began to feel overly warm in his pajamas. (Which was ridiculous because it was cold outside and in the flat.)

 

He slowly stripped, every touch of cold air against his skin feeling like a reprieve.

 

He knew that John was wandering around the flat somewhere, reluctant to bother Sherlock while the omega was still being pissy, and finding himself bored without the constant activity that comes along with babies.

 

But Sherlock didn’t feel like calling him quite yet. He was only just beginning to feel a dampness of his thighs. It would be a while before he was prepared, and there was no sense in getting John all worked up just to tell him he would have to wait.

 

Sherlock knew that the only reason John had put up with him the last few days was that he was looking forward to this more than he let on. They usually avoided the hassle of penetration when Sherlock wasn’t in heat since their respective biology didn’t match up. Sherlock, quite simply, couldn’t take John without a good deal of preparation and a fair amount of pain. He’d endured it for a while, but John caught on, lectured him sporadically for several days about speaking up when something was making him uncomfortable, and refused to have him in that way outside of his heats.

 

They made do, of course. Sherlock believed, at least, that John was in a state of sexual contentment. Both of them rather fondly remembered their first time together, and that hadn’t involved any penetration at all.

 

Sherlock smiled slightly as he finally stripped off the last of his clothes.

 

Good times.

 

The next few days would be different. They would get to be together the way that they were supposed to, alpha and omega, twined so tightly together that they lived and breathed as a single unit. Some excitement thrummed in Sherlock’s stomach, and that wasn’t the only part of his body that was taking interest in the thought of the next few days.

 

Sherlock stroked himself lazily, remembering what he could of the other heats he’d spent with John.

 

Only three others, he mused. Of the nearly two and a half years he had known John, he had spent a year and a half of it pregnant.

 

Which was really quite horrifying to tell you the truth. Sherlock had taken precautions to ensure this heat wouldn’t result in another child. He was on a more effective (so said his extensive research) birth control than he had been when the twins were conceived, and John had been instructed in no uncertain terms that he would be using a condom.

 

No more children, they had agreed, both exhausted and covered in vomit at three in the morning. They had enough children.

 

No children, no trying to get pregnant, just three to five solid days of sex.

 

It was going to be _glorious_.

 

“You’re making a bit of a spectacle of yourself,” John murmured, his voice low, from the kitchen doorway. So that’s where he’d been.

 

Sherlock cracked and eye open (when had they drifted shut?) and took stock of his current position.

 

His legs were spread wantonly, one on the floor, the other edging up the back of the couch. One hand was busy fisting, while the other was drifting steadily lower, between his legs and back.

 

“It appears to be starting,” Sherlock deadpanned, slowly his strokes. He arched his back slightly, putting on a show.

 

He tried glancing subtly back at John, and was rewarded with the sight of the alpha clenching his fists in restraint, watching Sherlock with a positively _predatory_ expression.

 

… …

 

God, Sherlock was a fucking nightmare before his heat.

 

John had forgotten about in, in the year since his last one.

 

It was a pleasant thing to forget about.

 

Because, John repeats, Sherlock is a _nightmare._

 

Sherlock never took his constant state of irritation out on the children, though. He had that much to his credit. He would leave John alone with them for nearly a day, though. He only snapped out of _that_ funk when John resorted to calling in some help.  
  
He only had to arms after all. You could not soothe three children with two arms.

 

But John was still an alpha. And a man,

 

So watching Sherlock like this, desperate for release, for gratification, spread out on the couch and looking so fucking delectable that John could just—

 

John took a deep, shuddering breath. Sherlock wasn’t ready for him yet. He had to stay calm.

 

But, oh, then his hand move quicker and his back arched up and before long Sherlock forgot about teasing John and putting on a show and just chased his own pleasure and then—

 

Then John had to leave the room because, for fuck’s sake, he could only endure so much.

 

“John?” Sherlock called out, a worried note to his voice.

  
“In the kitchen,” John take, taking deep, soothing breathes and trying to think about random things. Like mail. Or doing the laundry. Or politics.

 

There was a pause.

 

“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” Sherlock admitted after a moment.

 

“You’re fine,” John called back. “I’m just…calming down.”

 

Now the pause was awkward. “I’ll…” Sherlock started. “I’ll wait in the bedroom. I should be ready a few hours.”  
  
“Right,” John said, nodding although Sherlock couldn’t see him. A few hours. He could do this. “I’ll just be banging my head against the wall until then.”

 

God _dammit._

 

… …

 

Waiting for the heat to sink in was a slow sort of agony.

 

Sherlock was a writhing creature of _want_ and he had to wait until that want could be satisfied. Poor John wasn’t much better. Once, he had to lock himself in the loo until Sherlock deemed himself ready.

 

Minutes blurred into torturous hours until finally-- _finally—_ John tentatively opened up the bedroom door.

 

“Sherlock?” John called out softly. “Are you ready?”

 

Sherlock was past the point of being able to answer. John took that to mean that, yes, he was ready.

 

“Alright.” John said softly. “Alright, don’t worry. I’m here now.”

 

His voice was shaking with ill-concealed excitement and anticipation, and under normal circumstances Sherlock would tease him about it. Now, however, it only sent another stab of desire into him. He whined pathetically, ready to beg.

 

“I’m here,” John kept saying as he quickly shed his clothes. “I’m here now, you don’t need to worry about a single thing. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel so good. Pretty omega. My mate.”

 

John quickly scrambled for the condom before he lost himself to the rut. Sherlock just watched him in a haze, already rolling onto his stomach to present himself.

 

“God, so fucking gorgeous,” John whispered fervently, sliding onto the bed and moving to kneel behind Sherlock.  “Fucking mine.”

 

“Please,” Sherlock whined. “John, please.”

 

John teased Sherlock, slipping a finger in and humming in delight when he found the omega prepared. “So slick for me,” John sighed, the picture of content. “So good for me.”

 

Sherlock felt strong, warm hands grip onto his hips and then finally (finally!) John pressed into him.

 

It still stretched and burned, but his body was ready to accept the intrusion. And the feelings of desire and satisfaction overrode any of the pain anyway.

 

Both of them were too far gone to drag it out. John’s thrusts quickly became fast and hard and the delicious almost-but-not-quite-too-painful feeling of it set Sherlock further on edge. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulled him up for better leverage, then—

 

“There!” Sherlock croaked as soon as John hit his prostate.

 

“I know,” John chuckled, coming back to himself slightly. “I remember.”

 

John sped up, his accuracy unfailing, and after an embarrassingly short amount of time, Sherlock was almost sobbing, begging incoherently for the knot.

 

Because he needed—he needed just a little more. He couldn’t finish without it.

 

“Yeah-almost-just,” John gave a few short, shallow thrusts before finally pressing up and pulling Sherlock down.

 

Sherlock would never _ever_ tell John (for fear he would stop) but the knot hurt like hell. Each time it popped past the ring of muscle, Sherlock had the irrational fear (even in the haze of the heat) that something would rip or tear.

 

But, for once, biology was on his side. John always fit. The knot never damaged him, just left him feeling a bit sore.

 

And, oh God, it was exactly was he needed. The sensation of being completely filled, of feeling utterly owned, was enough to tip him over the edge. Sherlock came, shuddering, In John’s arms.

 

John wasn’t far behind. He pulsed inside of Sherlock, although the condom prevented the hot spill of seed.

 

A bit disappointing, said the stupid little omega in the back of Sherlock’s mind.

 

Shut up, Sherlock told it sternly. No more babies.

 

John carefully repositioned them so they were lying on their sides. Sherlock wriggled slightly, but they were locked together. Close, so very close. Twined tightly in a tangle of limbs, gasping against each other’s skin.

 

“I love you like this,” John murmured, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck. “All warm and flushed and pliant.”

 

Sherlock hummed. “You’re not bad, either.” John’s hands were running up and down Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock quickly grasped them in his hands, lacing their fingers together. “We don’t have long,” Sherlock said, “before the heat comes back.”

 

“I know,” John sighed. “Let’s just…enjoy this part while we can. We won’t be coherent again for a few days.”

 

Sherlock snuggled closer.

 

“How do you think the babies are doing?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence.

 

“They’re fine, I’m sure.”

 

“I suppose Silas _did_ survive being held by Anderson.”  


Sherlock felt John smile against the back of his neck. “They’re strong, our kids.”

 

“Well, they better be,” Sherlock huffed. “They’ll never be able to keep up with us, otherwise.”

 

“God, we’re going to buy them little coats and scarves, aren’t we? They’re going to be running around with pocket magnifiers and solve crimes before they’re out of their nappies.”  
  
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Sherlock complained. “But really, that sounds like the best thing that could possibly happen.”

 

“Perhaps you’re right, darling.”

 

“You know I am.”

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in part three.

**Author's Note:**

> The response to Six Steps was so amazing that I'm a bit terrified of how this sequel will be received. I really hope I'm not disappointing, but please HONESTLY let me know how I'm doing. 
> 
> Also, you can follow me on tumblr at emptycel.tumblr.com if you want updates, excerpts, the rare ficlet, or information about some of my other works. If you have questions, comments, or concerns, send me a message and I will get back to you. 
> 
> Five Steps will update on Fridays, if that changes, I will put up a notice on my tumblr. I hope you enjoy. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'The Five Steps of Nesting'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318585) by [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope)




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